


The Bird That Feels The Light

by ratherastory



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Apocalypse, Community: deancasbigbang, Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-12
Updated: 2010-10-11
Packaged: 2017-10-20 08:39:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherastory/pseuds/ratherastory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU from 5.18 (or thereabouts). Castiel awakens in the middle of a smoking crater, stranded and very much human. According to the people who have discovered him, it’s six months to the day after Michael and Lucifer faced off on the field of battle outside of Detroit, and Castiel isn’t the only one to have returned. When, at his insistence, they take him to this other person, he finds a child –a little boy– and realizes that, contrary to all his expectations, he has been reunited with Dean Winchester.<br/>The world has changed in their absence, and not for the better. Sam is gone, whether dead or simply missing is uncertain. Castiel is given the name of a man in Idaho who may have answers for him. He is faced with the task of travelling cross-country with Dean, who is dependent on him now in ways he never was before, in order to discover the truth. But along the way, as he and Dean learn to know and trust each other once more, Castiel begins to realize that the answers he thought he wanted might not be the ones he needs.</p><p>“Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark.”<br/>~Rabindranath Tagore</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Visitation

**Author's Note:**

> Very Brief Author’s Notes:
> 
> There will be a long, long post at the end of all this in which I thank a bunch of people and lavish well-deserved praise upon all the people who helped. Nonetheless, pride of place on this master post must go to the spectacularly talented daggomus_prime, who not only created art for my story, but created something so beautiful it quite took my breath away. Be warned, one of the pieces of art is a MASSIVE spoiler for the end of the story, but it moved me to tears, to see it illustrated. I’m not kidding. daggomus_prime put up with my enthusiastic flailing and constant PMs and IMs with grace, and deserves extra cookies for being a very good sport indeed. :)
> 
> I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my patient and long-suffering beta, pkwench. She brainstormed with me and helped me pull the story together. Some of the best scenes from the story are the direct result of her suggestions and prodding and poking. She fixed my grammar and syntax, pointed out typos, told me where my fic was veering off-course, and has basically helped mould this into a much better story than it started out as. She did all this and more, all the while working AND studying and producing her own fantastic fic to boot. I bow to her awesomeness.

[[Link to Art]](http://daggomus-prime.livejournal.com/17985.html)

 

 _Later people will tell him that it was like watching lightning, or a meteor strike. No one quite has the words to describe it, save that there was a brilliant flash of light in the sky, that seemed for a moment to set the heavens themselves on fire._

When Castiel opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is the tiny silhouette of a raven, circling high above him in the brilliant white sky. He blinks, realizes in doing so that he is still very much human, and experiences a moment of disappointment so bitter he nearly chokes. He stares up at the sky, doesn't remember ever seeing it so white, pristine and beautiful, until he understands that what he's seeing isn't clouds, but a blanket of ash that spreads as far as the eye can see, spilling over the horizon and down over the earth.

He sits up, takes stock. He's still occupying Jimmy Novak's body, although Jimmy's soul has long since departed from it. Physically he thinks he's unharmed, for the most part. He inspects his hands first, palms and then the backs, pale with a dusting of dark hair, absently pleased to note that they are unblemished. He's dressed in the same pair of jeans and the faded black t-shirt that Dean picked out for him months ago, when it was apparent that, as a human, he was going to have to adapt to living in more than one set of clothes. The jeans are torn at one knee, though he doesn't remember the events that might have led to such a circumstance. His feet are bare, and there are painful scrapes on both his arms and on his right ankle.

Castiel rises to his feet in one fluid motion, feels the muscles of his legs burn, as though the movement is one to which he is unaccustomed. He's standing at the epicentre of a still-smouldering crater, about a hundred feet across. The ground is surprisingly warm under his bare feet, the blackened remains of asphalt cracked and broken, glinting in the light where the intense heat has turned it to glass. The air is acrid and bitter on his tongue, the scent of ozone still sharp in his nostrils. He tilts his head from side to side, trying to ease the stiffness in his neck and shoulders, feels the cartilage crack satisfyingly, rubs the back of his neck.

Before him, the city of Detroit squats, stolid and immovable, a formless grey hulk. He finds its continued presence oddly reassuring, after everything. In the end, he remembers nothing save a light so brilliant and beautiful and bright even he couldn't see past it, the sound of shrieking and voices raised in terror and bewilderment and sometimes in prayer filling every crevice of his being. He believed the city to have been destroyed, along with everything else. He doesn't recall the end, save that the clash of the archangels was more than even he could withstand, even with what was left of his grace shielding him from the worst of it. He imagines it must have been a thousand times worse for any humans with the misfortune to be nearby when Michael and Lucifer faced off on the field of battle.

He recognizes the destroyed highway he is on as being one of the main thoroughfares leading to the city, although there are no cars around. There is nothing to see for miles except the blasted remains of the highway, the scorched earth where there used to be grass. The few houses around have been reduced to piles of rubble. Apart from the solitary raven overhead, there is no sign of life.

There is no logic in staying where he is. He has no way of knowing how much time has gone by, nor does he have any idea what happened to Dean and Sam after that last, terrible moment. He's stiff and sore, but otherwise his limbs are fully functional, and so he sets out to walk toward Detroit, padding silently along, on the broken ground, mindful not to cut his feet on the rough surface.

*~*

After a few minutes he catches sight of movement in the distance, coming from the smoky silhouette of the city. As he approaches, he sees that it's a small group of people, four or five at most, making their way toward him. There's a woman in the lead, dressed in a long brown skirt and a green down sleeveless jacket. The sleeves of a grey cotton hoodie hang down over her hands, and somehow he's not surprised to see the sturdy army boots on her feet, nor the shotgun slung over her shoulder. She appears to be in her mid to late thirties, white, long brown hair with streaks of grey braided neatly down her back. She's flanked by two men and another, younger woman. She steps forward to meet him, grey eyes fearless but wary, and he comes to a stop, waits for her to come to him.

“I know who you are,” she says.

He tilts his head, considering. She reminds him a little of Dean with her forthrightness. “Then you have the advantage of me.”

That earns him a laugh, head thrown back in genuine mirth. “Fair enough. I should say I know what you are. You were there when it happened. I was far away, but I saw you. I'd know you anywhere. You're one of them.”

“If you mean angels, then you are only partly correct. I was an angel, once.”

“Like the others?”

He shakes his head. “Not like the ones you saw. Far lesser. Even less so, now.”

She reaches out with one hand, and places it on his forearm. “You tried to stop it.”

“I did, and I failed. I am sorry.”

She shakes her head. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You're the only one who tried. If nothing else, we're grateful for that.”

“I am not the only one. You simply could not see the others who made sacrifices.”

“I don't even know your name.”

He pulls his arm free from her grasp, then reaches out to shake her hand. “I am Castiel. You may call me Cas, if you wish.”

She seems amused. “Okay, Cas. It's nice to meet you. I'm Katie.” She turns and motions to the others. “This is my little sister, Libby,” she smiles at the younger woman. “And these disreputable-looking thugs are Bill and Jethro.”

“It's a pleasure,” he remembers the niceties, most of them memories from Jimmy Novak's former life, a few of them learned from the Winchesters. He treats the latter with a certain degree of wariness, conscious that Dean's grasp of social proprieties was sometimes more limited than he was led to believe.

“Katie,” one of the men, Bill, speaks up. “We gonna go check out that other lightning strike or what?”

Katie looks at him. “Do you know where the other angel is?”

“What other angel?”

“There were two flashes of light. It's why we came out here, to see what was happening,” she says, with a grim smile. “We're all a little on edge these days, but you of all people should appreciate that. One minute we were trying to get through the day, and the next the sky was lighting up like it was the Perseids. It's about the right time of year for it, but as you can see, we don't exactly do much stargazing these days.”

“Flashes?” he prompts her, and she nods.

“Two of them, close enough together that I can't say for sure that I didn't imagine it. Since you ―landed in one, for lack of a better word, I just assumed you would know where the other one was. If you're an angel, doesn't it stand to reason that the other one would be an angel too?”

He shakes his head quickly. “I'm not an angel anymore. I'm human, same as you.”

“Oh.” He can't tell if she's disappointed. “In that case, we had better get you some proper boots.”

*~*

At Castiel's insistence, though, they forgo the footwear in favour of heading toward the site of the second flash. If there is another like him, then he wants to know who it is sooner rather than later. If it's something else... living with the Winchesters has brought home to him the lesson that knowledge is power. The reports of the second flash are vague, but they eventually determine that whatever, or whoever it was landed within the city limits. Word reaches them quickly of a destroyed building, and Katie increases the pace, giving instructions as they walk to people who run up to them.

“You are the leader here, then?” he asks.

“Sort of. I'm not sure how it happened, really. I used to be an administrative assistant, if you can credit it. I was just there when it all happened. People are calling it the Visitation.”

“What happened? All I remember is light and sound and fury,” he says.

“That about sums it up,” Katie nods. “A lot of people died,” she says softly, and there is a world of sadness in her voice that he doesn't even know how to begin to comfort. That has never been his role in this world.

“And then?”

“They sky turned white. It's like ash, but not really. As far as we know, it's all over the world, but it's hard to tell. Communications are iffy at best these days.” She shrugs. “Nothing has really worked right anymore since then. Someone said it was the onset of nuclear winter, but it's only been a little bit colder than before. No one really knows.”

“How long has it been?” he interrupts before she can explain further, and earns himself a curious look.

“You truly don't know?” When he shakes his head, she looks away, won't meet his eyes. “It's been six months. To the day.”

“It's November.” It feels like a revelation. “What did you mean when you said nothing worked right?”

“Someone said it was like an electromagnetic pulse: it knocked out all the sophisticated equipment we built for ourselves, made everything except the most basic analog technology completely useless. There aren't many people left to rebuild, either. So we've had to improvise, pull together in smaller communities than before. Detroit is mostly empty these days, so few of us survived. I don't know, to be frank. It's not like any of this is explainable by science. We'd better go,” Katie turns aside so abruptly that it's obvious the subject is closed for now. “It's this way, come on.”

She ducks down a side street lined with abandoned town houses, leaving him to hurry after her, along with Libby, Bill and Jethro. The streets here are filled with debris, and he begins to regret his earlier decision to forego finding boots. As an angel, healing his vessel used to be a mere question of thought, a hint of will, but he remembers clearly waking up in a hospital and being unable to so much as raise his own head. If he injures himself now, there will be consequences to face. When he was an angel, Jimmy Novak was an afterthought, his needs, his emotions, his ties to this world. Briefly Castiel wonders if Claire and Amelia survived the Visitation, doesn't know which outcome he's hoping for. It's impossible to ignore his human limitations now.

Once they're near the site, it's impossible to miss. Windows and doors have been boarded up, and already the houses are showing the signs of months of neglect. At the far end of the street, one house lies in smouldering ruins, half of it torn away by the impact. A small crowd of onlookers has gathered nearby, clustered together in small groups, hugging their arms to their chests as they talk anxiously among themselves.

“Has anyone gone in yet?” Katie calls out, but receives only headshakes as a reply. “All right, then. Fan out, see if there's anyone trapped in there. Be careful, I don't want anyone else to get hurt.”

Cas pauses for a moment outside the house, his chest constricting with an emotion he can't quite identify. He doesn't have to be an angel to recognize that everything is about to change again. “Thy will be done,” he whispers, and steps forward to meet his fate.

*~*

They pick their way across the rubble, the rough edges digging into the soles of Cas' feet ―just enough to hurt, but not enough to pierce the skin. He has to scrabble over some of it using both hands and feet, like a cat or a monkey. Those who came armed have slung their rifles and shotguns over their shoulders in order to free their hands. They sort through what's left of the structure, wooden beams jutting out like broken ribs against the ash-white sky, the ground a mess of broken plaster and drywall and splintered furniture. Castiel carefully avoids the remains of a shattered mirror, finds himself staring down at the eviscerated form of a plush rabbit. There must have been children here, once. He deliberately turns his gaze aside when he catches sight of a crib lying broken and crushed beneath a section of drywall.

They are none of them entirely sure what they're searching for, but they keep going doggedly, sifting through the rubble, until a cry goes up:

“I've found something!”

It's Libby, standing bent over at the far end of the house. He scrambles over to her, fuelled by a sense of urgency he can't quite explain, puts a hand on her shoulder.

“Down there. I'm pretty sure I heard something. Someone,” she amends. “But they won't answer when I call.” She turns wide, frightened eyes on him. “I don't want to go in there.”

“It's all right. I think I should go.”

The house had a cellar, once. It's all but collapsed in on itself now, nothing but a hole in the floor leading to a narrow, damp tunnel. Castiel kneels, listening, hears nothing for a moment. Then, almost too faint to hear, a tiny scuffling sound, and an all-too-human sniffle. He eases himself down, wincing and hissing in pain as his luck finally runs out and he feels something sharp slice into the side of his foot, just below the ankle. He ignores the flare of pain once he determines that the injury is superficial. The cellar has mostly collapsed in on itself except for where he's standing, and he drops to his hands and knees, forced to crawl in order to move forward in the rest of the cramped space. He wishes he had a light of some kind, but his eyes adjust to the dim light as he stares. When he was still an angel, he would have known exactly what was there. Now, though, he has to make do with perception made dull by the intermediary of human senses. He makes out a small shape in the shadows, huddled up against the far wall, bare arms and legs pale in the dark. A child. He thinks of the crib upstairs, makes his voice gentle when the small form flinches away at his approach.

“Don't be afraid. I am here to help you. Are you hurt?”

There's no answer, but he hears another soft sniffle, a hiccup of barely-contained tears. The child's head is buried in his arms ―Castiel is reasonably sure it's a boy. He creeps forward again, keeping his gestures slow, remembering how Sam Winchester used to deal with frightened children.

“I am going to put my hand out,” he says softly. “I would very much like it if you were to take it and come out with me. It's not safe for you in here.”

There's still no answer, and if he had more room to move he would be tempted to simply scoop the child in his arms and carry him out. As it is, though, he is going to have to coax him out, convince him to follow.

“My name is Cas.” He remembers Sam introducing himself to the tiniest of children very seriously, as though they were the most important people in the world. They never failed to respond, tucking tiny hands into his much larger ones and looking up at him with nothing but trust. Castiel thinks he may not be able to hold himself up to those standards, but he has to try. “What's your name? Will you tell me?”

The child jerks, raising his head and squinting at him from under an unruly mop of messy, sandy-brown hair. Castiel's breath catches in his throat as hazel eyes lock with his, and a soul he'd recognize anywhere stares back at him.

“Dean?”

*~*

Castiel kneels, sitting back on his heels, head brushing against the low ceiling of the wrecked cellar. He doesn't understand how any of this is possible, but he is certain that the small boy huddled against the wall is Dean Winchester. If there was any doubt in his mind up until now, the child uncurls and crawls toward him without hesitation, allowing Castiel to fold him into his arms. He clings to Castiel's t-shirt with grimy hands, face buried in his collarbone. Castiel brings up one hand to rest briefly on the tangled mop of hair.

“It's all right,” he murmurs. “But I can't carry you out, Dean, there isn't room. Will you come with me?” He feels Dean's breath hitch, then a quick nod. “Good. Come on. We should go in case this tunnel collapses. It is structurally unsound.”

It's a little more difficult to get out than it was to get in, if only because Dean slips a sticky little hand in his, wrapping his fingers around Castiel's index finger and refusing to let go until they're directly under the hole through which Castiel first lowered himself. Castiel stands slowly, careful not to hit his head.

“Libby?”

Her face appears in the hole in the ceiling just above his head. “Are you all right?”

“Fine. I'm going to hand him up to you now.”

“What? Who?”

He's already leaning over, grasps Dean under the armpits. “I'll be right behind you, all right?”

He doesn't wait for Dean's answer, simply hoists him above his head and into the waiting hands above him. It's more difficult to pull himself up than he anticipated, with nowhere to find purchase. Several sets of hands grab his arms, and someone grabs him by the belt in order to drag him the rest of the way. He lands in an ungraceful heap, scraped and bruised and not a little winded. He sits up, dazed, and a moment later he finds himself with an armful of small child. He looks up to find himself confronted with faces whose expressions range from curious to outright suspicious. Katie is the first to speak.

“So who's this?” she keeps her tone mild, but he can see the concern in her eyes. He understands it, to a degree: it's her responsibility to keep all these people safe, whether she asked for that responsibility or not.

He clambers awkwardly to his feet, hampered by Dean's clinging to him as though he's the one piece of driftwood in rough seas. “This is Dean Winchester.”

Her face doesn't register any recognition. “Okay. But we never found any kids in this area of town when we searched.”

Castiel shifts Dean in his arms until the boy's weight is resting on his hip. “He's not from here. I knew him... before.”

Something he can't identify flickers in her eyes. “When you were an angel?”

He nods. “He was my charge, before what you call the Visitation.”

“So... you're his guardian angel?”

He barks a laugh, surprised in spite of himself. “I suppose that's close enough.”

“What's he doing here?”

“I have no idea. I don't even know what I'm doing here. I've spent six months precisely nowhere. I haven't the faintest clue what's going on. Sorry.”

She believes him. He can tell they don't all share her faith, but she's their leader, they'll follow if she says so. There's a beat, and she blows out her breath in a frustrated sigh. “All right. Is he hurt?”

Castiel looks Dean over as best he can. “No, I don't think so. Dean? Does it hurt anywhere?”

Dean keeps his face hidden against his collarbone, shakes his head.

“Not all that talkative, is he?” Amusement tinges Katie's tone. She steps forward, puts a hand very gently on Dean's arm, her fingers barely brushing against his skin. “Hey, little guy. You think you and your friend here are ready to come back with us? Looks like you could both use a change of clothes and some decent shoes.”

It's then that Castiel realizes that Dean is barefoot, just as he is, dressed in only a faded blue t-shirt and shorts. He's covered in streaks of dirt from head to toe, his hair tangled and dirty. He gives Katie a sheepish look.

“I hadn't thought that far ahead.”

“I can tell,” she says drily. “All right,” she addresses the whole group. “Questions can wait. Let's get back, grab something to eat, try to sort this mess out.”

It's a testament to her leadership, Castiel thinks as he falls into step behind her, that no one even thinks of questioning her decision.

*~*

There isn't much by way of luxuries in this new world, but Castiel never paid much attention to such things anyway, nor did Sam or Dean ever much indulge in them. Still, even running water appears to be difficult to come by, and there is little electricity to spare for anything other than heating food and the bare minimum of lighting.

“We do have the capacity for more,” Katie tells him as she shows him through the shelter to which she's taken them, “but it's easy to overload the small grid we have. So we ration everything, keep people on a pretty tight leash for some things. Everything else, people have as much leeway as possible. It works, for the most part. Come on, the infirmary's this way. I want you both to get checked over, just in case. I'll see about finding you some clothes in the meantime.”

Castiel finds himself in the competent, if slightly bossy hands of a skinny girl who looks as though she's barely out of her teens, her wiry hair cropped short in an effort to keep it out of her face. She seats him on a cot neatly made up with a serviceable grey blanket and a worn white sheet, Dean tucked under his arm.

“Okay, stay put,” she says sternly. “It's not a bad cut, but the last thing you need is for it to get infected. Do you remember when your last tetanus booster was?” She rolls her eyes at the blank look on his face. “I'll take that as a no, then. You're in luck: we still have a fair amount. Can't say the same for all our supplies. I'm Joline. What's your name?”

“You can call me Cas.”

“All right, Cas. And who's the barnacle?” she smiles, genuine and sweet, and pokes Dean playfully just under his arm. “You got a name, sweetie?”

Dean squirms, and to Castiel's surprise smiles back shyly before hiding his face in Castiel's armpit. Joline's smile widens.

“Oh, we're shy, are we? I've got something for that. You hold on.” She gets up, goes to rummage in a drawer, and when she comes back she has whatever it is concealed behind her back. She crouches in front of Dean, and whispers conspiratorially. “This is extra special, so it's going to have to be our secret, okay? Okay, here you go,” she says when Dean nods, and produces a red lollipop. “You hang onto that while I take care of Cas, here.”

Small fingers wrap themselves around the candy, and Dean watches, wide-eyed and solemn, as she settles on a stool in front of them, a small tray with supplies on the bed next to them. “All right. Let's take care of that foot first.”

The rest of the day goes by in a blur. Castiel finds himself being led from one room to another, from one person to another until the faces all blend together. The quick shower he's afforded feels like bliss, and since Dean refuses to be separated from him even for the shortest amount of time, wrapping both arms around his leg and hanging on for dear life even at the mention of separation, he simply opts to take the boy with him. He applies soap to a washcloth and wipes the dirt from him, kneeling carefully in order to wash his hair. When they're both sufficiently clean he wraps Dean in one of the rough towels they've been given, tousles his hair dry, and surveys him critically.

“I think you'll do,” he says, and is rewarded with another shy smile, to his relief.

He feels entirely out of his depth, dredging up mostly-forgotten memories of Jimmy's on how to handle small children, a few from his own experience watching Sam and Dean deal with the few children they'd come across. He's never had to deal with one all on his own before, even if it's Dean, whom he knows down to the core of his soul.

“Dean, aren't you going to say anything?”

For the first time Dean breaks eye contact of his own accord, stares at the floor. He worries at his lip with his teeth, glances up at Castiel anxiously through his lashes, then looks back down at the floor. Castiel can see his breathing speed up, ribs rising and falling just under the pale skin, and when he sees tears pooling in the boy's eyes, he realizes he's made yet another huge mistake. He rubs Dean's arm just below the shoulder reassuringly.

“It's okay,” he says, even if he doesn't believe anything is okay anymore. “You don't have to talk. I'm not angry with you.”

That gets him a hopeful look, along with a faint, wobbly smile.

“I promise,” he answers the unspoken question. “Now, why don't we see about clothes, and then we'll go in search of food. Is that okay?”

A nod. Dean slips a hand back into his, and Castiel feels his heart skip a few beats, can't help but feel unworthy of the unquestioning trust that has just been placed in his all-too-fallible hands.

*~*

Dean nearly falls asleep in the bowl of chicken noodle soup that's provided for dinner along with a dish of cooked cabbage that Castiel has never heard of before called sauerkraut. Culinary terms have never been his area of expertise or even interest, and up until recently he never bothered to learn much about food beyond the basics of human nutrition, since his vessel never required sustenance while he was occupying it. Even when he was human for that short space of time, food had simply been given to him: at the hospital, or by Sam and Dean and even Bobby, without any of them so much as asking for an opinion. Now, though, he realizes that he's hungry, and that he will have to learn this kind of thing for himself, or continue to go hungry. Around him the air is filled with the buzz of a dozen or more conversations.

“Poor mite,” an older man looks at Dean across the long table at which they're all sitting in the communal dining area. “He looks just about done in.”

“It's been a long day,” Castiel agrees, grabbing hold of Dean before he spills his soup in his lap, allowing him to list against him instead, eyelids drooping in spite of his valiant efforts to stay awake.

“You two got a place to sleep tonight?”

He nods, blows carefully on his spoonful of soup before putting it in his mouth. He's already burned his tongue once today, and he's not keen on repeating the experience. “Katie has been kind enough to let us stay here overnight. After that... I suppose I will have to work something out.” The expression is one he learned from Dean, and it feels unfamiliar and clumsy on his tongue, but the man nods as though it's the most natural thing in the world.

“He yours?”

“In a manner of speaking. He's... a friend.”

The man arches an eyebrow, then shrugs. “Okay, then. I didn't catch your name, friend.”

“Cas.”

“It's a pleasure, Cas. I'm Daniel.”

“The pleasure is mine,” he says, surprised at how easily he's able to slip into the human conventions he never bothered with before. He suspects it may be because he never had to, up until now. They exist for a reason, though: humans need each other, and now that he is one of them, the sooner he adapts, the easier it will be. “I would shake your hand, but,” he looks down meaningfully at the sleeping child in his lap, and Daniel laughs softly.

“No worries, my friend. We've all heard about you: word travels fast in our little community. Any idea what you're going to do next?”

He shakes his head. “I'm not certain. There is one person I should try to reach, though I don't know if he even survived what you term the Visitation. He is something of an expert in ―unusual occurrences, you might say. Do any of the telephones still function?”

Daniel purses his lips before taking a bite of his sandwich, wiping crumbs from his beard with a napkin. “Some. How far's your friend?”

“He lives in South Dakota.”

“Huh. Not likely to reach him from here, in that case. You can try, of course. Ask for Helen, she's the go-to person for communications around here. What did you mean by unusual occurrences?”

Castiel hesitates, remembering Sam and Dean's insistence that 'civilians' not be told anything about the supernatural. Then again, these people have all lived through the apocalypse.

“It would take too long to explain in detail, but he knows a great deal about supernatural phenomena, and I believe he may be able to help us.”

Daniel gives him an appraising look over his now-empty soup bowl. “Your friend wouldn't be a hunter, by any chance?”

Castiel blinks, but doesn't give anything else away. “You know about hunters, then?”

He gets a grin in response. “There aren't many of us left, but we've spread out as much as we can. There's a handful of us here in Detroit, since this is Ground Zero, but there's a few dozen scattered around the continental U.S. Fewer of us than there were, though.”

“You didn't sit there by chance.”

“Give the boy a prize. I know who you are. And if you're looking for Bobby Singer, well, I'm sorry to tell you that no one's seen or heard from him in over six months. Most people think he followed those boys straight through the gates of hell.”

Castiel chokes, swallows hard. Dean stirs against him but doesn't waken. His eyes sting, and he's surprised to find that his cheeks are wet when he brings a hand up to rub at them. He's never cried before. Daniel seems taken aback by his reaction.

“I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were close to him,” he says gruffly, ill at ease. “I'd have broken it to you more gently if I'd known.”

He sniffs, cuffs at his nose with his sleeve, wonders just how humans deal with this all the time, every day. “It's all right.” His voice is hoarse, throat tight. “You simply caught me off-guard. He was ―a good friend.”

“I'm sorry,” Daniel repeats, and Castiel believes him. “There's someone else you can try,” he adds, “but he's not exactly available by phone. You'll have to go in person.”

*~*

Dean is limp in Castiel's arms when he carries the boy away from the noise and bustle of the communal dining room, arms and legs flopping bonelessly. He feels impossibly light, as though he might simply float away if Castiel lets go, and Castiel finds himself tightening his hold even as he tells himself the thought is irrational. Katie has told him he and Dean are welcome to some of the spare beds in the shelter until they're 'on their feet,' as she puts it, but he knows that they are an added complication in her already-burdened life. The people of Detroit are eking out their existence, gradually pulling themselves out of the chaos into which the apocalypse ―or Visitation― plunged them, and the addition of a renegade angel and a small boy guaranteed to make everyone's existence harder.

Dean doesn't wake up as he strips off his clothes and tucks him under the blankets of one of the army-issue cots, but he stirs and whimpers quietly, the first sound he's made since he was found that morning. Castiel strokes his head briefly, relieved when that appears to be enough to make him settle down. He sits on the bed next to him for a while, alone with his thoughts for the first time that day, and finds that the experience isn't exactly a pleasant one.

Castiel has never been free of doubt, not since the moment when he and his garrison tore their way into hell and he found himself reaching out to grasp the broken, beautiful soul of Dean Winchester in order to rip him from the depths of perdition. He experienced doubt, then, that he was doing the right thing, experienced it increasingly as he spent more time with Dean and later with Sam. He thought for a long time that it was akin to an infection, some shameful, dirty thing he acquired from humans, but he's no longer sure of that, either. He doesn't long for his previous certainty, but it seems to him that his existence used to be much simpler. All he has now are questions. He doesn't know where he's been, nor why he's back. His last memory is of being relieved at the thought that he was going to die. Now he's faced with the prospect of almost a full lifetime of being human, and he doesn't know quite what to make of that.

Watching Dean sleep raises a thousand other questions about what's happening. He can't think of a reason for Dean to be alive at all, let alone restored to the age of four or five, as he appears to be. As far as Castiel is concerned, the three of them ―himself, Dean and Sam― should all be long dead, consumed in the final conflagration. There has been no sign of Sam, even though Castiel and Dean were returned simultaneously. He doesn't know what it means, only that the thought of Sam and Dean being separated now doesn't bode well. If Sam somehow survived and is still out there, then Castiel owes it to him to try to find him, to reunite him with his brother. After that... he's not sure he can think that far ahead.

Right now it's all he can do to think all the way until tomorrow. Daniel has given him a name ―Nicholas― and the imprecise location of a bar near Meridian, Idaho. He has two choices now: stay here, where it's ostensibly safe but there are no answers, or take a small child out into a world which is even more dangerous, in the hopes of finding ―what? He's not even sure. Answers, perhaps, or meaning. Or maybe simply somewhere else to be. There has never been a moment in the past two years in which Castiel hasn't been searching for something or someone. His eyes burn again, his vision blurring and he scrubs at them impatiently with the back of one hand. Under his other hand, Dean sighs quietly in his sleep, and Castiel chokes back a sob.

“Father,” he whispers, “why am I here?”

*~*

Castiel isn't sure what awakens him at first. He opens his eyes, blinking in the unaccustomed darkness. Before, even when he stayed in motels with Sam and Dean, or even at Bobby's, there was always some ambient light by which to see: either from a streetlight or a motel motel light, or the stars themselves above the salvage yard. Now, though, he's in a room in a shelter, surrounded by two dozen other cots, and the stars are hidden behind a thick cloud of ash and smoke. He sits up slowly, every muscle protesting, and looks around, waiting for his eyes to adjust, and sees that the cot next to his is empty.

“Dean?”

He reaches out, groping blindly, and finds the covers turned back, the bed still warm. He can't be far, Castiel tries to reassure himself. He's a small boy. Perhaps he needed to use the toilet. Castiel seems to recall, thanks to Jimmy's experience, that sometimes small children get up in the night for such reasons. Still, he can't quite silence the small voice at the back of his mind that tells him that all won't be well until he has Dean in his sight again. He throws back his own blanket, swings his feet to the floor, and pads softly among the beds lined up side by side, searching the darkness. He's careful not to jostle any of the beds, out of care for his bare feet and out of concern not to wake any of the sleepers, whose heavy breathing and occasional soft snores keep the room from seeming unnaturally still, but the very act of taking care makes him worry that he might have missed Dean, who's so very small, perhaps hidden under one of the beds. He doesn't dare call out, doesn't want to attract attention to himself.

Dean isn't in the room. After several minutes of fruitless searching, it's obvious enough. Castiel stumbles over the threshold of the door leading to the hallway, stubbing his toe on the sill, and he barely manages to catch himself with a muffled yelp of pain. Flexing his foot gingerly, he hobbles into the hallway and heads in the direction he thinks leads to the makeshift toilets they've set up behind the shelter in an effort to conserve water.

He hasn't gone more than a few yards before a scuffling sound from another room draws his attention. He finds himself in one of the storage areas, surrounded by boxes of supplies, though it's too dark to read any of the labels. Going around one of the bulky industrial-strength shelving units, he catches sight of a small figure peering tentatively into the darkness away from him, both hands around one of the steel posts, the side of his face pressed up against the cold metal.

“Dean?”

The boy startles, turns to face him so quickly that he loses his balance and almost falls, fear and relief warring on his features. Castiel holds out a hand in a clear invitation for him to come.

“I didn't mean to startle you. Why are you out of bed? Did you get lost?”

Dean comes forward, a bit more timidly, and in the dim light Castiel can see traces of tears on his face. He takes the proffered hand without hesitation, though, and tugs on it, as though asking Castiel to accompany him somewhere. Castiel studies him for a moment, has a flash of intuition.

“Were you looking for Sam?”

A nod. Dean bites his lip when it threatens to wobble, eyes averted, and Castiel hears his breath hitch.

“Sam's not here. I asked,” he says, watching Dean's face crumple in disappointment. “But we're going to find him, starting tomorrow. You would like that, wouldn't you?”

Another nod.

“Good. Now, we both have to sleep. We can't find Sam if we're not rested. Would you like me to carry you back?”

Dean puts his arms up, which seems a clear enough signal, and so Castiel hoists him back onto his hip. Carefully he takes them both back to their assigned bunks, only to have Dean cling to his neck with both arms and refuse to let go. For a moment he's at a loss: he doesn't understand children, not really, and while he knows Dean, he's only ever known him as an adult. He doesn't understand how to deal with this small, frightened creature who can't seem to communicate even the most basic thoughts and needs.

Dean holds on to him tighter, and he thinks he knows what to do, this time anyway. He keeps one arm securely wrapped around the boy, and eases himself back onto the bed, tucking the thin blanket around them both.

“Is this all right?”

He doesn't get an answer, not that he was expecting one, but Dean wedges himself as close as he can along his side, and soon his breathing evens out into sleep, warm and slightly sweet against Castiel's face.

*~*

“You're definitely going to go, then?”

Katie is leaning in the doorway, arms folded over her chest, watching as he packs a few changes of clothes into a duffel bag. All of it has been given to them, scrounged from a few generous locals, including a woman who lost her entire family to the Visitation who provided clothing that would fit a boy roughly Dean's size. Castiel has been on earth long enough, human long enough, to know that it's unusual for complete strangers to give out charity like this. He doesn't want to think too hard of the woman whose son's clothes Dean is wearing, nor about the role they played ―however indirectly― in the circumstances that brought about her small, personal tragedy amidst the hundreds of thousands of small, personal tragedies.

“I think it's important to speak to this Nicholas.”

“You think he'll be able to tell you anything?”

Castiel pauses in his packing, shrugs. “I can't be certain, but the answers we are seeking aren't here.”

“The world's a dangerous place. You're just one guy, and you'll be taking a little kid out there with nothing but your clothes and a couple of sleeping bags.”

“I know. I believe it's necessary. As much as I would like to keep Dean out of harm's way, I think trouble will find us whether we look for it or not.”

“He seems like a good kid.”

He smiles. “He is that.”

“Any idea why he doesn't talk?”

He's not sure if he can explain that this was how Dean was when he was five years old before. Not without getting into more explanations than he has time for. “Not really. I think he can talk, if he wants to. He'll talk when he's ready.”

“Poor kid's probably traumatized. Lord knows there's enough of that going around.”

He nods, but doesn't comment.

“You give any thought to how you're going to survive out there? Things are different, now, but not that different. You're going to need supplies, money. Transportation, too, although there are still enough people driving around that you can probably hitch a ride in most places. Supposing you want to drag the poor kid hitchhiking.”

Castiel hasn't given it any thought. “I took a bus, once.”

She snorts softly. “There are far fewer buses out there now. Besides, do you even have money for a bus ticket?”

“I suppose not. I've never been particularly useful... not as a human, anyway. I used to be able to travel without regard for time or distance. It used to bear no meaning at all, no relevance.”

“Yeah, well, you're human now. Time for these things to start being relevant.”

“So I gathered.”

Katie unfolds herself from the doorway and comes to sit on the bed next to the duffel bag. She holds out a wallet. “Look. Here in Detroit, we know who you are. We also know what you were, and what you did for us. Out there, the further you go, the less people are going to know. So we're going to help you as best we can, but if you insist on going, there's not much more we can do for you.”

He stares at the wallet for a moment, then reluctantly takes it and tucks it into the back pocket of his pants. “Thank you. This is more than I can ever repay, you know.”

She shakes her head. “The way I see it, we still owe you. The only saving grace here is that some things are a lot cheaper than they used to be. Of course, other things are way more expensive. You're heading to Idaho, you said?”

“That's right.”

“Well, there's not much more I can do, but we do have people who run supplies back and forth from Toledo. There's one leaving today, if you want a ride. From there you'll pretty much be on your own.”

Castiel swallows, his throat tight. “I keep saying 'thank you,' but it seems inadequate,” he manages hoarsely.

“I know there's nothing I can say to keep you here, but... I think you should leave the boy with us. It's too dangerous out there for him, and we can take care of him here. Miriam... she lost her boys. I think it would do her good to have him to look out for.”

“I'm sorry. I have to take him with me. I'm... responsible for him,” he says, even though it's not the half of it. He can't begin to explain this to her, what lies between him and Dean.

She sighs, and it occurs to him that perhaps he doesn't have to explain it. “Yeah, I thought so. Come on, I'll get you your ride.”

*~*


	2. Eye of a Hurricane

There are more motor vehicles around than Castiel thought there would be. No one is producing them anymore, but there are enough people left who understand cars and motors to keep the ones still in existence running for a while longer, and there is still fuel, even though it's no longer being siphoned from the earth. Dean is holding onto his hand, his fingers sticky from something he ate at breakfast no doubt, but he seems to have gained a measure of confidence since the day before. He's holding himself very still, very upright, staring ahead intently, as though gauging his surroundings for potential threats.

Their ride is a brown truck with a cabin large enough to accommodate six grown men, if needs be. The driver, a quiet man in a flannel shirt over fading blue jeans named Bruce, gives them a nod when Katie introduces them and explains what they need.

“I'm not going further than Toledo and back, but I can always use the company. There's always people coming and going there. Won't be hard for you to catch a ride in the direction you want to go.”

“We appreciate it.”

“I'm going no matter what,” Bruce shrugs, as if it's of no consequence. “Don't have a car seat, but the kid looks big enough to sit in the back. You're practically grown-up, aren't you, son?” he directs a sudden conspiratorial grin at Dean, whose expression thaws a bit. He nods. “That's what I thought. Hop on board. I got a schedule to keep.”

Castiel shakes Katie's hand briefly, lifts Dean up into the truck's cabin and buckles the safety belt around his hips before climbing into the front himself. Dean immediately twists in his seat, pressing his face to the window to watch the scenery roll by. It's brighter outside during the day, but the light is dim, now, compared to before. The clouds of ash hang thick in the air, turning the light a sickly white, devoid of warmth.

“Has the sky looked like this all this time?” he finds himself asking.

“Since the Visitation, yeah. How come you don't know?”

He shakes his head. “It's difficult to explain, but... I wasn't present for many months.”

“Lucky you.”

Castiel huffs something that might be agreement or amusement, and says nothing further. He glances back at Dean, watching the world through a pane of dusty glass, his eyes very round as he takes it all in. The road is littered with debris that's been swept to the sides to clear it, rusting hulks of cars that must have been caught in the initial devastation, their frames twisted and bent into shapes which bode ill for the occupants in them at the time. Every so often he catches sight of an animal carcass, lying on its side, rotting in the filthy air. The third time he risks looking at Dean and finds the child chewing on his lip, staring at the decomposing remains with a look far too old for his face.

Sometimes there are people walking along the side of the road, some seemingly with a direction in mind, others with large baskets and bags, collecting what little can be salvaged from the rubble. Dean surprises him by waving at some of them, and they wave back, sometimes with a smile or even a laugh, and Castiel feels the knot in his stomach loosen at those moments. It may be a terrible and frightening new world out here, but it's reassuring to see that some people haven't forgotten how to find joy in small things. When one woman blows Dean an extravagant kiss, he giggles and turns to look at Castiel with a smile that takes his breath away, pointing at her.

Castiel forces himself to smile. “You liked that, did you?”

Dean grins, then turns back to wave even more enthusiastically, and Castiel can see the woman laughing, pointing out the waving child to her friends.

“There aren't too many children left,” Bruce says quietly. “We try to take extra special care of the ones we got.”

“I don't understand.”

Bruce gives him a speculative look. “Katie said you haven't been around. After the Visitation was done, everything went to hell for a while. People got sick, and there weren't enough doctors to go around. Just before there was a flu pandemic, and after it became a fully-blown epidemic. The children got hit the hardest.”

After that, there doesn't seem to be anything of use to say. Castiel barely resists the sudden urge to pull Dean into his arms and never let go again.

They pull into Toledo a couple of hours after leaving Detroit. There is no traffic, but the roads are no longer maintained the way they were before: there is no one to operate the heavy machinery required for it. Bruce pulls up in front of a diner with a hand-painted sign that says simply “May's Diner.”

“My supply pick-up is on the other side of town, but you can get good food here, and it's not expensive. May's a good woman. You can probably find yourselves a ride out of town there, too, if you wait long enough.” Bruce turns in his seat, and very seriously shakes Dean's hand. “You take care, now, son. And watch this one: he needs taking care of.”

Dean looks up at him, returns the handshake and nods very solemnly.

“Good boy.”

*~*

May is a plain woman in her late thirties, dressed like everyone else in long, warm clothing from which most of the colour seems to have faded. Her short-cropped hair has a healthy dusting of grey but her face is unlined, and she breaks into a heartfelt smile when Castiel walks in, Dean clinging to his sleeve in a sudden fit of shyness.

“Hi there. Passing through?”

Castiel nods. “We're going to Idaho.”

“Bet you'd like some food first, though,” she bends a bit to look at Dean. “Hello, sweetheart. What's your name?”

Dean ducks behind Castiel, who shrugs. “This is Dean.”

“Shy, are we? That's all right,” May leads them to a corner booth, eyes Dean critically, then fetches a yellowing telephone book from behind the cash register and places it on one side of the bench. Dean climbs up without a word, settles on the phone book, small feet kicking under the table. “I'm May, in case you hadn't guessed.” She pauses, waits, and Castiel realizes she's waiting for him to introduce himself.

“I'm Cas. It's... nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, Cas. That's an unusual name. Is it short for Casper?”

“Castiel. But I haven't gone by that name in a long time.”

She nods, purses her lips. “Even more unusual. I think I'll keep that one to myself: not everyone is likely to react well to it, you know.”

“I appreciate your discretion.”

“Mm-hmm. All right. We've got a beef and mushroom casserole today, or else pasta with tomato sauce. What would you like, Dean?” the warmth is already back in her voice.

Dean's eyes go wide, and he turns an anxious look toward Castiel.

“Would you like the casserole, Dean?” Castiel gets a headshake. “The pasta, then?” A nod. He smiles, turns to May. “We'll both have the pasta, please.”

“All righty, then. You two just sit tight. Would you like a coffee while you're waiting?”

It will be the second cup of coffee in his entire life. He's still not sure if he even likes the drink. “Yes, please.”

She returns a moment later with a steaming white mug and a bowl of sugar packets. “We're out of cream, but I have whitener if you want it.”

“It is perfectly acceptable as it is.”

May places a small stack of used paper on the table, and pulls a handful of wax crayons from the pocket of her apron. “There you go, Dean. I know that having to wait around is pretty boring, so why don't you draw some pictures?”

Dean looks up at her, bangs falling into his eyes, then down at the paper. He hesitates, then carefully reaches out and plucks a brown crayon from the pile, pulls a sheet of paper over, and applies himself carefully to his new task. He squirms when he notices Castiel watching him, and so Castiel pointedly looks elsewhere, takes a sip of his coffee plain, then grimaces and adds a spoonful of sugar. He tastes it again, adds a second spoonful, and that makes it more palatable.

The meal is plain but filling, and Dean manages to smear tomato sauce on his face and hands and a good portion of his shirt. Castiel ends up taking him into the restroom at the back of the diner and scrubbing him clean with a hand towel, while Dean squirms in his grip, twisting away from the rough fabric, but submitting to the treatment without so much as a peep. Castiel begins to wonder if he should be worried about the fact that Dean still hasn't said a single word to anyone. Surely he's capable of speech? He files the thought away for future reference. At last, Dean is no longer sticky or covered in red sauce, and Castiel ushers him from the restroom. May is waiting for them when they return.

“I may be able to help you get on your way,” she says as Castiel carefully peels eight dollars out of the wallet Katie gave to him and places them on the table. “There's a fella leaving Toledo tomorrow or maybe the day after, heading west. I'm not sure exactly where he's going, but I can put you in touch with him, and the two of you can work something out.”

Castiel nods. “Thank you. Do you know of a place where we can spend the night, in that case?”

She pauses, gives him a considering look. “I'm guessing you're not exactly rolling in money?”

It's his turn to hesitate. “I am not familiar with that idiom, but... I don't have much money, no.”

“Are you willing to work in exchange for a reduction in the price of your room?”

“If I can. I don't have many useful skills.”

“You'd be surprised. You're a healthy adult, which means there'll be some use for you somewhere. Why don't you sit back in your booth, and once I'm done serving lunch you can come with me. I think I know somewhere you can stay.”

He nods his thanks, leads Dean back to the table, and very carefully doesn't watch as the boy uses a yellow crayon to draw what looks like an elaborate sunburst.

*~*

There are few people out on the street, although it's a nice enough day for the time of year. A pall hangs over the town, the way it hung over Detroit. Dean ducks his head, hands over his sunburst drawing to May, staring diffidently at his feet, and she thanks him with all the sincerity she can muster. It's a mass of yellow, an indistinct brown figure at the centre.

“You should sign it, sweetie. All great artists sign their work,” she says, and so Dean very carefully prints his name in wobbly letters at the bottom of the picture, slightly off-centre. The 'n' is backward, but the name is recognizably his.

“What is it meant to be?” Castiel asks him, but Dean just looks at him as though he's dim-witted.

May shakes her head. “It's the Visitation, Cas. Anyone can see that.”

He looks at the picture again, tilts his head as though the angle will help him see better. “Oh.”

From the outside, it looks completely different.

Dean slips a hand into his, and they follow May down the street, and minutes after they leave the main thoroughfare Castiel feels hopelessly lost. He's never had to worry about directions before, he always used to know exactly where he was. He has to slow his pace so that Dean can keep up with him, trotting on sturdy little legs beside him. They stop in front of a pretty little white house, and May strides up the front walk and rings at the door. A moment later the door opens, revealing a young blonde woman, equally as pretty as the house. Her jeans are clean, and her pink shirt is the first real colour Castiel has seen since he came back. She smooths her hands over her hips, smiles, and her mouth looks soft, her teeth white.

“Hi, May. What can I do for you? Oh!” she startles as Dean suddenly darts out from behind Castiel and grabs hold of her wrist, grinning up at her. She smiles back, obviously smitten. “Well, hi there. What's your name?”

Dean just grins and hangs on, so Castiel answers for him, again. “This is Dean. He's normally very shy. I expect it's because you're pretty that he's taken a liking to you. He likes pretty girls.”

Dean directs a flat look at him. She blushes, glances up at him through her lashes, then looks back down at Dean. “That's a really nice name, Dean. I knew a Dean, once. He saved my life, you know. He was very brave. And also really cute. I guess it must go with the name, being handsome.”

She ruffles his hair, and Dean glows under the praise. If Sam were here, Castiel thinks, he'd be rolling his eyes.

May clears her throat. “Charlie, you think you can give these boys a room for the night? I figure you must have a few things around here that need doing. I thought Cas here could give you a hand with them, in exchange for a bed for the night at a reduced rate.”

Charlie hesitates visibly, looks first at Dean, then at him. “Yeah, okay. Why don't you come in, and we'll figure something out. May, you want to come in? I can make tea.”

May shakes her head. “No, thank you anyway. I should get back to the diner. I'll be in touch, Cas, as soon as I hear anything.”

Castiel follows Charlie inside, Dean trotting at her heels. “We had a storm last week,” she's saying over her shoulder. “One of the trees in the yard lost some big branches, so if you're any good with a saw I could use a hand breaking it up into smaller pieces and hauling it to the shed for kindling.”

“I can learn.”

She huffs a laugh. “You and the rest of us.”

He glances around the house, noting that while it's very neat and tidy, it's also unlike some of the suburban houses he visited with Sam and Dean. There is no evidence of many electronic appliances, and he catches sight of salt lines by the doors and windows. “Does everyone know of the supernatural now?”

Charlie stops, gives him a more appraising look. “Sorry?”

He points. “Salt lines. Is this common knowledge now?”

“No, it's not. It's a precaution I learned from some friends, years ago. To be prepared. It's why I can still live here when most people don't. How do you know about this stuff?”

He shrugs. “Let's just say I have special insight into the matter.”

“Christo.”

Castiel throws back his head with a laugh. “I'm not a demon, Charlie,” he reassures her, although Dean has retreated back to his side.

She grins ruefully. “Sorry. You're just... well, no offense, Cas, but you're a little weird.”

“I've been told that. No, rest assured, I'm a human, just like you.”

*~*

Performing manual labour is not something Castiel has ever had to do before. As an angel, physical exertion was an afterthought, and even in the last days before the apocalypse, when he was human in all but name, he was not required to do anything of the sort. Despite May's promise to help him find transportation, it's several days before he hears back from her. In the meantime, he does the best he can to help Charlie around the house. He quickly discovers that he's mostly useless at basic repairs, at least at first. He helps her to saw the fallen tree branches in her yard into firewood, piling it into small cords near a makeshift shed that's been built in recent months for the express purposes of keeping wood dry.

“I'm trying to plan ahead,” Charlie tells him. “We can still heat with oil for now, but there's no telling how long it'll last, and firewood takes a while to dry out. Green wood doesn't burn as well, just makes lots of smoke.”

“You've given this a lot of thought.”

“Someone has to.”

The first night she serves him a dish of stewed beans and meat from a large pot, which she tells him is chili. It's fragrant and warm and makes his tongue tingle from the spices. It staves off the November chill, and he wraps his hands around the bowl, savouring the warmth seeping into his skin. Dean is sitting in his lap, drowsy but unwilling to be left alone to sleep in the large bed Charlie has provided for them. Castiel keeps an arm wrapped loosely around the boy's midsection, while Charlie, her voice quiet, tells him about the two brothers who saved her life many years ago, before the world ended.

“It's easier to believe now than it was at the time,” she says, with a smile that takes ten years off her face. “The spirit of a dead woman who comes and kills people through the mirror?It was a kid's game, until people started dying. Back then the two of them ―Sam and Dean― came and went, and it felt like a ghost story someone had made up to tell around a campfire, complete with the mysterious heroes who drove off into the sunset in their muscle car. Now, though... everything's different.”

Castiel knows what she means. People are more open to the truth, now that it has been laid bare before them.

“I never heard from them again,” she continues, but he senses she's no longer talking directly to him. “Not that I expected to. But I wondered, for a long time. What they do, it's dangerous, you know? So sometimes I wonder if they're safe, if they're still alive, if they're still doing what they were. Especially with everything that's happened, it kind of makes me feel safer to think that there are people out there, still trying to hold back the dark.”

Castiel glances down at the boy in his lap, warmth coiling unaccountably in the pit of his stomach. Sam and Dean may not have the chance to see the good they do over the long term, but they have changed lives, almost always for the better. Dean is very nearly asleep, limp and relaxed against his chest, breathing even, but Castiel can tell he's awake and watchful, even under heavy-lidded eyes. He raises a hand, combs his fingers through Dean's hair, and is rewarded with a soft sigh and a settling of the boy's weight against him.

“You're good with him,” Charlie smiles. “But he's not your son. I can tell. How did you end up with a kid his age?”

He's surprised. He feels entirely out of his depth with Dean in this form, constantly plagued by the worry that he'll do him some irreparable harm. He's so small like this, vulnerable.

“He's my charge, I suppose. But he's also my friend.”

She likes that description, he can tell. “Your friend, huh? Well, stranger things have happened. He looks like he's about to drop, though. Maybe you should take him upstairs. I'll clean up here.”

“Are you sure? I don't wish to leave you with all this,” he gestures to the unwashed dishes, and she chuckles.

“I've seen worse. You can make breakfast tomorrow, if you insist.”

His lip twists. “I don't think that's a good idea. De ―someone once told me my cooking was terrible, the only time I tried it.”

“Well you're going to have to learn. You can't get by these days without knowing how to cook a little bit. I could teach you a bit, if you want. Everyone should at least know how to cook eggs.”

“We're likely leaving tomorrow, if we can get a ride out.”

“Then you'll just have to learn fast.”

He smiles as he pushes his chair back and hoists Dean into his arms. “I suppose I will.”

*~*

The promised ride out of town fails to materialize the next day, and while May is apologetic, there doesn't appear to be much he Castiel can do about it. He takes Dean for a long walk around the town when he appears to become restless, and is once again taken aback by the warmth with which people greet the boy. There are no children Dean's age, although there are several older ones, between ten and fourteen years of age, he guesses. Of those, the girls in particular seem to take a shine to Dean, and he suddenly finds his morning monopolized by a couple of young girls who insist upon taking them both to a nearby park.

“Come on,” a girl named Lucy tries to get Dean to take her hand as they walk, but Dean stubbornly clings to Castiel's hand instead. She takes it in stride, introducing Castiel to her friend instead. “Nessa and me are best friends forever. Aren't we, Nessa?”

Nessa is darker-complexioned than Lucy, older and considerably more sober in her bearing. She nods, though, in a way that suggests to Castiel that Lucy is perhaps the more dominant of the two. “That's right.”

“Forever is a very long time,” Castiel says, and Lucy shrugs, unconcerned. “Do you have other friends?”

“Lily,” Nessa's voice is quiet.

“She died of the flu,” Lucy supplies helpfully, in that artless way that some children have when something is too monumental for them to fully understand. He thinks Nessa understands all too well. “But it was a long time ago.” He revises his opinion of Lucy's age, puts her perhaps closer to seven or eight at the most, whereas her friend appears to be on the cusp of adolescence. It's an odd match, from what little he knows of these things, but then, these are odd times.

Lucy makes a dash for the playground when they get there, Dean and Castiel in tow. Her wiry hair has been carefully woven into tiny braids with wooden beads on the ends which clink together musically as she moves. Dean is fascinated, and reaches up to tug gently on the braids. She giggles. “You like those, huh? My momma braided my hair. She used to complain about it taking so long, but she doesn't anymore. Don't you want to go on the slide, Dean?”

Dean has balked at the foot of the ladder leading up to the top, squinting dubiously at it. He ducks his head, looks back at Castiel from beneath his bangs. Castiel smiles encouragingly. “Go on, it's all right. I won't be far.”

“Maybe he'd like the swings better,” her friend says. “He's a little small for the big slide.”

“Okay. You want to go on the swings, Dean?”

Dean appears to think about it, then, after one last look at Castiel, nods. He lets Lucy grab his hand, then, and trots behind her until they reach the swings. He squirms away when she tries to lift him onto the swings, and it's only when Castiel approaches again that he lets himself be picked up and deposited in one of the small swings.

“Why doesn't he talk?” Nessa asks.

“I'm not sure.” Castiel has asked himself this question, along with a hundred others, over and over again over the course of the past couple of days. No one, himself least of all, has any answers for him. “I think perhaps he is waiting for the right time to say what he needs.”

“I think you should push him,” Lucy is studying the swing critically, oblivious to their conversation. “I'm too short and he won't go high enough.”

“Is going high important?”

“Of course!”

Nessa agrees. “It's better when your dad pushes you, anyway.”

“I'm not his―” he stops. “Why is it better?”

She shrugs. “I dunno, it just is. Or your mom, but I guess Dean's mom isn't around anymore, is she?”

There's a strange, heavy feeling in his chest. “No, she passed away many years ago.” _When Dean was still a child_ , he's about to say, when he catches himself.

“At least he's still got you.”

“Come on, Castiel!” Lucy calls. She's perched on one of the swings designed for older children, the chains creaking against the wooden seats. “You have to come push the swings now!”

Nessa smiles unexpectedly. “She means she wants you to give her a push to start her off. She hasn't figured out how to do it on her own.” She trots to her own swing, and within seconds her skinny legs are pumping up and down, propelling the swing into the air.

Castiel obligingly gives Lucy a 'start,' then turns back to Dean. “Would you like me to push you?”

Dean looks down at the ground, then back up at him, and kicks his feet experimentally. Then he nods, small fists curling around the chains to steady himself. Castiel pulls the swing as far back as he can reach, then lets go, watching with no little trepidation as the rusted chain squeaks alarmingly. The swing holds, though, and Dean grins delightedly over his shoulder, and so he pushes harder, until the swing goes as high as the chain will allow and Dean is shrieking with delighted laughter.

“Look!” Castiel turns to see that Lucy is lying across the swing on her stomach, arms and legs spread wide. “I'm flying!”

*~*

It's several days before he's able to secure transportation away from Toledo, long enough that he begins to worry about whether the money he was given is going to last all the way to Idaho. He's going to have to find a way to earn money, he realizes, or at least some sort of skill he can use for barter. Given the current state of things, there aren't many skills he has that are applicable. Centuries-old knowledge isn't useful in a world where people are barely scraping by. For now, they're all right, and he supposes he'll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

Charlie pronounces him a fair cook, in the end. “You won't be winning any culinary prizes, but at least the two of you won't starve while you're on the road. What do you think, Deano? Is it edible?”

Dean looks up from where he's sitting at the kitchen table, propped up on a telephone book ―the default for small children to sit on when there are no booster seats available, it seems― and grins. He's got maple syrup smeared over his face, and is very carefully trying to cut through a pancake with his fork. It's been days, and he still hasn't so much as said a word, which Castiel finds worrisome, among all the other things he finds worrisome. Charlie seems to have taken it in stride, however, making him wonder if many human children stay silent this way. He doesn't have much to go on in terms of experience.

“I think he approves,” Charlie says, startling him out of his reverie. “I hope you don't mind my saying so, but the house is kind of going to feel empty without the two of you here, even if you're not all that loud,” she smiles.

He's unaccountably sad at having to leave her behind, finds to his surprise that she too brushes away tears and embraces him upon his departure.

“You take care now, okay? Of yourself and Dean.”

“I will,” he promises. “And you do the same.”

Castiel makes a point of buying a knife before they leave town, a large Bowie that closely resembles the one he remembers Dean having about his person at all times. He tucks it in a sheath, concealing it beneath his jacket without a word. Their ride out of town is another rust-eaten van ―they seem ubiquitous in this new, unfamiliar world. The driver is a thin, unshaven man of dubious hygiene who introduces himself as 'Lyle.' Last names are a luxury in this world, and Castiel doesn't bother even extending his hand to shake. Lyle doesn't appear to expect it, anyway.

“Just keep the kid quiet, and we'll do just fine,” he says by way of greeting. “Trip'll cost you ten bucks. Five up front, five when we get to Dayton. That'll cover gas, and you get to ride shotgun. You know how to work one of these? None of the others do, and I could use the backup.” he tosses a twelve-gauge at Castiel, who instinctively puts out a hand and plucks it neatly out of the air and racks it, grateful for those last few lessons with Dean before the end. Lyle gives him a look that much more appreciative. “All right, then.”

The van is filled to capacity with passengers, and so Castiel is forced to hold Dean on his lap, the seatbelt buckled securely around them both, the shotgun propped at his feet. The November weather has turned chilly, but with the sky still white with ash, it's impossible to tell whether or not it will snow. For all Castiel knows, it may never snow again. Nothing is certain. He's made sure Dean is dressed in as many layers as he can comfortably wear while still being able to move, and has opted himself for more layers as well, another thing he learned from the Winchesters before the end. Layered clothing is the key to being prepared for all contingencies with the weather and imperilled living conditions. Dean wriggles in his lap until he's able to look out the window, the hood of his sweater drawn over his ears and fastened tightly with drawstrings. He sucks on the knuckle of his left index finger, watching the world go by over his fist.

The drive is entirely silent, the grey-tinged countryside sliding past them in a blur. None of the passengers appear to know each other, and none of them engage in small talk. Castiel doesn't bother introducing himself or trying to learn their names. In another day or two, they'll be nothing but distant memories, as ephemeral as the ghosts Sam and Dean used to hunt, fading into mist. It was past well past midday when they left, their departure delayed by endless small things and around four or five o'clock ―Castiel has no watch and can only vaguely guess at the time, the sun hidden as it is behind the thick ash that hangs overhead― a mousey-looking woman opens up a basket and hands out stale sandwiches of some sort of meat paste. The sandwiches are dry, the paste barely edible, but it's free nourishment, and he knows better than to turn his nose up at it.

Dean stirs in Castiel's lap, and points out the window with a now-wet finger, eyes wide, his expression both curious and a little fearful. Castiel peers through the windshield at what he had first assumed was simply debris along the road, and which he now realizes are dozens of crows, pecking at the carrion to be found near the ditches. The scenery here is already very different from what it was on their way to Toledo. There are no people walking the roads here, just an empty, desolate expanse of fields and abandoned houses, the occasional car rusting by the side of the road. He spots several animal carcases strewn about, and in one instance his stomach roils when he recognizes the shape of a human hand protruding from what's an otherwise unrecognisable mass of half-eaten, half-rotted flesh. After that, the sight of bodies becomes more frequent, and he finds that he can't shield Dean from all of them, try as he might.

Through the truck's air vents the cold air acquires a sickly-sweet tinge, and if they all recognize the taste of death, no one says a word.

*~*

Twilight creeps in unnoticed, the sunset invisible behind the barrier of ash. Dean is restless, fidgeting in his lap, obviously bored, and likely overtired by the long trip. He wriggles, accidentally jabs Castiel in the sternum with a small, sharp elbow, and either ignores or doesn't notice Castiel's grunt of discomfort.

“Dean, I know it's uncomfortable, but you must sit still,” he admonishes quietly.

The boy huffs an exasperated-sounding sigh, and for a moment Castiel sees nothing in him except Sam at his most petulant and unreasonable. In spite of himself, he smiles, thankful that Dean is facing away from him and can't see him struggling between amusement and sorrow. Dean gives one last wriggle, then settles again, sucking on his knuckle, kicking his feet until Castiel is forced to clamp a hand over both his ankles to keep them still.

“He's well-behaved, for his age,” the woman with the sandwiches remarks. Dean's elbow is digging in under Castiel's ribcage, and he's finding it difficult to believe that this is what consists of being well-behaved, but it would be churlish of him to contradict her.

“Really? I haven't much experience with children.”

She smiles, and suddenly looks much prettier than he originally thought, not that he'd taken much notice of her. “Oh, he is. Mine were hellions at that age. They'd have been bouncing off the walls of the van by now, yowling at the top of their lungs. I can't believe he's sat still this long, and not a peep out of him!”

“He doesn't speak much.” Castiel is at a loss.

“Late bloomer,” she says, as though that's supposed to mean something to him, and so he simply nods, and silence falls back over them. He understands, now, why humans so often compare the falling of silence to that of a shroud. Death surrounds them all.

The crows gather in ever-increasing numbers, even though the light is failing. Soon it's impossible for Castiel to tell whether the sky is darkening naturally, or whether their wings are blocking out what little light there is left. The cold creeps in, settling in Castiel's bones and making his joints ache and his breath fog in the air. Dean shivers and burrows into his chest for warmth, and Castiel strokes his head absent-mindedly, the gesture of comfort half-remembered from his vessel's paternal instincts, and he hears a quiet snuffle from the boy.

“All right?” he asks softly.

Dean sits up, pulls his hand from his mouth and points with a wet finger toward the road ahead, illuminated by the van's high-beams. Castiel strains to look ahead, and almost immediately wishes he hadn't. At first it seems the road is simply covered in a black shroud, but as they approach the shadows sharpen into the silhouettes of hundreds more crows, which flap up to soar lazily in the air above them as the van approaches, circling and watching. Waiting.

“Oh my God, what is that?” one of the passengers asks, voice cracking, though he's speaking barely above a whisper. Dean shoves his knuckle back into his mouth, holds onto his wrist with his free hand, and Castiel doesn't think he's imagining the shiver that runs through him, this time due more to what he's seeing than the cold.

The stench of death is thick inside the van now, cloying and choking. Ahead, bodies have been piled near a ditch, bloated and sprawled however they landed when they were tossed aside there. It's too cold for flies, but what few eyes they have left after the crows got to them stare glassily at him from faces distorted by rot ―the light from the van's high-beams reflecting off the scratched corneas. Their flesh has been partially torn away by scavengers, the visible patches of skin pale and shining, almost translucent as it stretches from the bloat.

“Why have these people not been buried?”

Lyle snorts. “Ain't got nobody who cares enough, I reckon.” He's dismissive, derisive almost, but the van is slowing in spite of his words, as though the dead are commanding his respect, however grudging it might be.

“Does this happen often?” Speaking now seems almost blasphemous, but he can't bear the silence

Lyle shrugs. “You get bodies now and again. There ain't much that's alive in these parts.”

There are uneasy murmurs from the back of the van, and Castiel finds himself touching a fingertip to the hilt of his knife, still concealed beneath his jacket, checking to make sure the shotgun is within easy reach. It feels like he's been hunting with the Winchesters for a lifetime, and in a way he has. A short lifetime, but a lifetime nonetheless. He wonders if Jimmy Novak knew how to fire a shotgun, doesn't believe he did.

“We should―” he begins, but isn't given the time to finish his sentence as the driver's side window suddenly explodes inward, and the van erupts into ear-splitting screams.

*~*

There are people outside the van, one clinging to the hood, another hanging from the roof and reaching through the broken window with sharp-clawed hands. Lyle screams as the windshield shatters, throwing his arms up over his face, and the van spins out of control in a shriek of brakes and the stench of burning rubber as it skids along the half-frozen asphalt. Instinctively Castiel wraps one arm around Dean, hunching over to protect him as the van careens over the ditch past the piled of corpses. There's a sickening crunch as they run into the fence along the side of the road, and Castiel wrenches to the side as a length of wood as thick as his arm punches through what's left of the windshield and threatens to impale them, shielding Dean with his body.

For a moment a hush settles over them. In the stillness, Castiel can hear the harsh pants and muted whimpers of the other passengers, can feel Dean trembling against him. He releases his seatbelt, heart jackhammering against his ribs, blood roaring in his ears, only to have the screams start up again as the van's rear doors are ripped from their hinges in a shriek of tearing metal. Before he can turn to see what's happening his own window bursts in a glittering shower of cracked glass, and he's being dragged from the vehicle by something which has his arm in a vice-grip. He loses his hold on Dean, for a moment sees nothing but the pitch-black sky as he lands, winded, on the frozen ground.

A face appears above him, feral and savage, and he catches a glimpse of a set of jagged fangs protruding from between otherwise rotten teeth, like a shark's. The vampire runs a grey tongue over its fangs, then almost quicker than Castiel can see, it lunges at his throat. He twists away, clawing at the ground, and feels a rush of putrid air as it narrowly misses tearing out his jugular. He shoves himself back toward the van, kicking with both legs, feels his fingers close around the cold barrel of the shotgun. There's a terrible, tearing pain in his calf, but it fades a moment later, and he swings the shotgun around, shoves the barrel directly into the creature's neck, and pulls the trigger, sees its head come free of its shoulders in a spray of red droplets and ribbons of tattered, marbled flesh.

Dean is nowhere to be seen, and Castiel's heart lodges itself somewhere near his mouth as he scrambles to his feet. “Dean!”

Vampires are swarming the wreckage of the van, clinging to it like giant, bony spiders, screaming and laughing maniacally. They're nothing like the vampires he remembers from before, the secretive, arrogant creatures that took pleasure in taking their victims alive and torturing them for days before ending their lives. These are terrible, desperate creatures, their eyes flashing hungrily in the darkness, screeching and catcalling as they tear the body of one of the passengers limb from limb between them, their sallow faces smeared with gore and viscera.

The woman who gave out the sandwiches is dead, sprawled on the ground, her throat gone, eyes staring glassily off to one side, limbs splayed grotesquely, her grey skirt rucked up around her hips. The world slows almost to a crawl around him, and he finds himself staring at her, wondering if he should feel some sort of loss. The van rocks on its wheels, and there's a grating, screeching sound as it slowly tilts, two wheels coming free from the frozen earth, and it crashes onto its side, shards of glass raining inside with a musical tinkling.

“Dean!”

There's no answer. He racks the shotgun just in time as another vampire lunges for him, takes off the top of its head with a second shell, and it drops, twitching. He doesn't think it's dead ―Dean was always very clear on the fact that the creatures had to be beheaded completely in order to be stopped, but this one appears to be immobilized, at the very least. He whirls on himself, putting his back to the upturned van, and drives the stock of his weapon into the face of another vampire which falls back, hissing.

An instinct makes him turn his head, and he catches sight of Dean standing in the road, his eyes so wide with fear they appear to swallow his whole face. Bodies litter the side of the road, bleeding sluggishly into the dirt, and he can feel the moment when the vampires' attention turns away from the still-warm corpses and settles on the boy. The creatures are everywhere, a good half-dozen of them still in full fighting trim. Two of them leap, cat-like, to stand before him, while the rest stare hungrily at Dean, the tension in their bodies visible. They're coiled like springs, ready to throw themselves at their latest meal.

“Dean, run!”

*~*

The shotgun jams after one more shot. Castiel grips it by the barrel, drives the stock at the remaining vampire's face, aiming for its eyes. It hisses and draws back, barely, then bares its teeth in a horrific grin.

“Well well well,” it says in a mocking sing-song. “It's been a while since the cattle fought back. Come on, little calf. Let's see how well you do now that your gun doesn't work!”

A lifetime ago it would have been nothing to destroy this creature. A simple touch of the fingers. Less time than it would take to formulate a thought. Now, though, his powers are gone, and his body is turning traitor. He's breathless, aching, his arms burning from the unaccustomed exertion, all his nerve endings thrumming. The vampire laughs at him, taunting, circling, while all the while he's acutely aware of Dean, alone and vulnerable only a few yards away, the vampires bearing down on him.

Out of the corner of his eye he watches them approach, slowly now, as though they have all the time in the world. Dean stumbles back a step, one hand raised in front of him in a futile attempt to ward them off. Castiel can see naked terror in his eyes, can imagine the vicious grins on the faces of the predators as they move to circle him.

“Run!” he shouts again, praying Dean isn't so paralysed with fear that he'll stay rooted to the spot.

With a snarl of his own so savage he barely recognizes his own voice Castiel slams the butt of the shotgun into the vampire's face, then sweeps its legs out from under it with a vicious kick. It lands on its back with an expression so shocked it might be comical under other circumstances, and before it can react he brings the butt of the shotgun down again, putting all his weight into the blow. He feels the fragile bones of its faces shatter and crunch, raises the weapon and strikes again, again and again, until the vampire's head is crushed, an unrecognisable pulp of flesh and blood and splintered bone.

“Dean!”

There's no time to think. Heedless of anything else, Castiel scrambles out of the ditch and throws himself past the prowling vampires. Dean is already running, but it's nothing to overtake him, snatch him up into his arms and clutch him to his chest. He keeps running, but finds himself face to face with the grinning, wild face of a vampire a split-second later.

“And where do you think you're going?”

Dean is clinging to his shoulders with both hands, head ducked down and pressed up against his chest, shaking so hard Castiel can barely keep hold of him. The vampires are advancing, slowly, methodically, cutting them off from the road. Castiel takes a step back, then another, his mind a blur of pure animalistic terror. There's nowhere to run but toward the field, and on the uneven ground he stands even less of a chance of escaping. There's a bitter taste in his mouth, his stomach churning as he realizes they're going to die if he can't find a way to get them away. He looks around desperately for a weapon, anything that might help them get away, and his gaze falls upon the mouldering pile of corpses sprawled in the ditch nearby. He half-remembers something Dean once told him, in another lifetime, and without stopping to second-guess himself he takes to his heels, barrelling past the weakest looking vampire, shoving it bodily out of his way.

He and Dean sprawl amongst the corpses, and the stench of rot fills his nostrils and mouth, making his gorge rise. He gags, nearly vomits, shoves Dean under the nearest body.

“Stay down! Don't come up until I tell you!”

Castiel scrambles away from him, slip-sliding over the bodies, feeling rotted flesh give way under his boot heels, sinews snapping and small bones splintering beneath him. He pulls his knife free of its sheath, buries it to the hilt in one of the bodies, then braces himself in order to pull it out, covered in thick, blackish ichor. One of the corpses' limbs tears loose as he scrambles for purchase, and he finds himself tumbling into the ditch, landing sprawling on his back. An unearthly growl announces the first vampire, descending on him, slavering and snarling, limbs splayed, spider-like. He feels its breath, foetid and cold on his face, and just barely manages to bring up his hand and drive his knife into its arm. It chokes, ribbons of saliva dribbling over its lower lip, and he feels its grip slacken before it slides off him, boneless and limp.

Castiel flails, desperately trying to regain his feet, feels a burning pain in his shoulder, twists on himself and scratches at it with the knife. The dead man's blood is brutally effective, more than he'd dared allow himself to hope, and his reflexes are still good enough that when the remaining two try to flank him, he's able to dive at their feet, rolling past them and slashing at their legs with the knife. They crumple, their knees buckling before they fall face-forward onto the ground. For a moment he's too stunned to move. Then, slowly, he clambers to his feet, pulse still racing.

“Dean?”

The night is all too quiet, but a moment later there's a shifting, rustling sound, and a grimy head pokes out from under the corpses. Dean scrambles over to him and throws himself headlong into his arms, his tiny frame racked with silent sobs. Castiel grips him as tightly as he can, staggers away from the corpses to sit on the road and rocks him.

“Shh,” he whispers. “It's okay. It's okay, they're gone. You're safe now. We're both safe.”

Neither of them move for a very long time.

*~*

It's only when he feels Dean's sobs turn into uncontrolled shivers that Castiel manages to rouse himself enough to get up and out of the road.

“Okay,” he says briskly, trying to remember how Dean used to be when they needed to be efficient and ruthless. “We can't stay here, Dean-o. It's cold and there might be other things around.”

He's not sure where the nickname came from, but Charlie used it, and Dean doesn't seem to mind. He finds a reasonably-sheltered spot, and settles Dean there, draping his jacket over the tiny shoulders. He winces as the movement pulls at what feels like a nasty cut on his shoulder.

“Did they bleed on you?” he asks, checking Dean over as best he can in the dark. “Are you hurt at all?” He gets a headshake, and lets out a breath he didn't even realize he was holding, so relieved his knees almost buckle. “Okay. Stay here. I'm going to go make sure those things can't come after us again.”

He'd forgotten just how difficult and bloody it is to decapitate a vampire. He never had to do it before, preferring to let Dean handle the more run-of-the-mill creatures, but he remembers seeing both Winchesters spattered with gore and complaining bitterly about vampires that didn't conveniently disappear in a cloud of dust the way they did on the television. It takes the better part of twenty minutes to sever the spinal cords of the four remaining vampires, and by the end his muscles are burning, his arms trembling. His shoulder is on fire, as is his right calf. It's impossible to tell how bad his injuries are without a light source, but he's able to walk and fully move both arms and legs, and so he thinks he may have gotten off lightly. He's also relatively sure that none of the vampires managed to infect him, even inadvertently. From what he knows, the effects are almost instantaneous, and he has no feeling of heightened senses or hunger.

He limps back to Dean. “Come on. They're all dead now.”

Dean looks up at him, eyes heavy-lidded now that the adrenaline has worn off. He takes Castiel's hand, looking even smaller in Castiel's heavy jacket, and follows him back to the van, sticking close to his leg without clinging. He tugs on Castiel's hand, points to the blood stain on his pants leg, the question obvious.

“Yes, I am injured, but I don't believe it to be serious. There is no need to worry,” he assures the boy, who simply nods.

There are no survivors. There is no way to shield Dean from the horror of the bodies of their former travelling companions, and so Castiel doesn't even try. “I know it's awful,” he says, kneeling and smoothing Dean's hair back from his head, “but they can't feel anything now. They're beyond pain, and beyond fear. Do you understand?”

He's not sure Dean does, but there's nothing to be done about that now. He clambers into the wreckage of the vehicle, closes his eyes briefly at the sight of one of the men who'd been riding with them, his sternum ripped open, ribs jutting through the flesh. Gritting his teeth, he begins sorting through the upended belongings, finds the pack and duffel bag that he packed for him and Dean nearly five days ago. He drops them outside, then pulls out the rest of the baggage, finds a flashlight tucked into the door on the driver's side, and uses it to sort through the piles, looking for anything that might be of use. Waste not, want not, he remembers. He clears the jam from the shotgun, straps it to the duffle bag; finds a few cans of food, helps himself to a few more changes of clothing and a spare blanket.

He shines the flashlight over his leg, winces as he sees the wicked-looking gash that stretches from just behind his knee and winds down over his shin all the way to his ankle. He has no way of tending to it now, but it's going to need some sort of treatment unless he wants to find himself permanently lamed, or worse. Logic would dictate staying near the van at least tonight, to use it for shelter, but he finds he can't stomach the idea of spending the night near all those corpses. Even though he knows it's only his imagination, he fancies he can feel their sightless eyes boring through past his skin to gaze at his soul, judging and finding him wanting.

He pulls the straps of the backpack over both his shoulders, slings the significantly-heavier duffel bag over his right shoulder, testing to see if he can bear the weight. Then, gingerly he hoists Dean up onto his left hip, curling an arm around his waist.

“Ready to go? We're going to find somewhere to bed down for the night, but it's not going to be here.”

Dean nods, and Castiel feels some of the tension drain from the small body, as though Dean too had been dreading the thought of spending any more time in this place.

“Okay then,” Castiel makes his way slowly to the road, and strikes westward. “Here we go.”

*~*

The morning dawns not much brighter than the night. It's lighter out, but everything still has the washed-out feel to it that it always does, now that there is no sun. Castiel blinks in the pale light, forcing his eyes open. He and Dean took refuge in an abandoned outbuilding on a farm which looks like it burned down months ago, clinging to each other in the narrow sleeping bag Castiel obtained in Detroit. It's not really big enough for two people, but Dean is small enough to fit, and this way they were better able to keep warm, stave off the shock of the night's events. Slowly, Castiel draws down the zipper on one side to free himself, and winces as he finds his leg has stiffened in the night. His pants leg is crusted with dried blood, and when he turns up the cuff he sees that the wound is already turning an angry red around the edges. He has no first-aid supplies to speak of, and realizes in retrospect that it was an oversight on his part. If he learned nothing else from Sam and Dean in the days when they were still hunting, it's that medical supplies are more important even than weapons. As an angel, he never had to think of such things, but now he has both himself and Dean to think of.

Dean sits up next to him, scrubbing at his eyes with grubby fists. They're both still filthy, covered in dirt and smears of blood and other substances that Castiel finds he doesn't really want to think about. It's funny ―in that non-funny way, as Dean used to say― how quickly he's beginning to think like a human. When he was an angel, the thought of human bodily fluids of any kind would barely have registered with him, let alone provokes the feelings of revulsion currently roiling in him.

“Did you sleep all right?”

Dean tilts his head to the side, and Castiel doesn't press the issue. Instead he takes advantage of the new light to check Dean again. Apart from being filthy, though, Dean really does appear to be unharmed, a minor miracle in itself, considering what happened to everyone else with them. He opens two of the cans of food ―tinned pears― raising a silent prayer of thanks for the person who invented the kind of can that opens using a simple pull-tab. He hands one can to Dean, together with an admonishment to eat slowly, wipes his hands until they're at least somewhat clean before lifting the can to his lips. The pears are sweet, the juice in which they're canned running down his chin, and he wipes his mouth on his sleeve. Dean giggles quietly under his breath, and in spite of himself Castiel smiles.

“What? You think I look silly?”

Dean ducks his head, but he's still smiling, and Castiel rolls his eyes in amusement. “I'm not the only one covered in pear juice, Mr. sticky-hands.”

He packs up their gear as quickly as possible, and on his way out he spots what looks like the spigot for a garden hose attached to one of the charred walls. On an impulse he twists the knob, and is rewarded with a thin stream of water, barely more than a trickle, but it serves well enough to get them a little more clean, though he doesn't want to risk using it as drinking water. Dean squirms, unimpressed with the cold water and the rough fabric of the shirt Castiel has ripped apart to use as makeshift washcloths, but he keeps a firm grip on him.

“Come on, Dean, it's not that bad,” he says a little impatiently. “It's just water. Or would you prefer to stay covered in filth all day?” Dean gives him a dark look which suggests he thinks it's a trick question, and Castiel sighs. “Never mind. You are just as stubborn this way as you were when you were fully yourself.”

Dean glares, and not for the first time Castiel has doubts about his level of awareness. “Dean, do you remember what happened?”

He's asked before, and he gets the same answer. Dean stares at the ground, shrugs one shoulder, scuffs the toe of his sneaker against the dirt. The corners of his mouth have turned down, smalls hands clenched into fists.

“Dean? Talk to me,” he realizes his mistake the moment the words have left his lips. Dean looks up, his expression suddenly hard, a stubborn set to his jaw, and deliberately closes his mouth. Castiel sighs again, puts a hand on his shoulder. “I'm sorry, that's not ―I didn't mean you have to talk. Not yet, not if you're not ready. I worry about you, that's all. It used to be difficult to make you keep silent, remember?” he tries to smile, chucks Dean under the chin, and gets only a distrustful stare in return.

He clambers stiffly to his feet, his leg throbbing. “Do you think you can walk for a while? I'm not sure I can carry you right now. We're going to try to get to the nearest inhabited place, find some help there. All right?”

He doesn't exactly expect an answer, but Dean shuffles over to him, and follows readily enough when he makes his way back to the road. They walk in silence, beneath the ash-filled sky, the only sound for miles the cawing of carrion crows. After perhaps an hour, Dean, who's been lagging a step or so behind, puts on a small burst of speed and slips his hand back into Castiel's.

They keep walking.

*~*

It's tougher going than Castiel anticipated. Nothing he ever did before, as an angel or as a human, has prepared him for walking long distances on little rest and almost no food. Before, there was always transportation to be had, food to be found or scrounged when necessary. Now he finds himself in the odd position of having to think about rationing, about where they're going to be able to find drinking water that's safe for both of them. It's not as cold during the day, but it seems that winter is closing in faster than anyone anticipated, and he's sure that if they don't find another vehicle in which to travel, they won't get very far.

After another hour of walking Dean is lagging badly, dragging on Castiel's hand, and so Castiel bends down and pulls him up onto his shoulders, wincing a little bit as Dean reflexively grips his hair with his fingers. He stays still as Dean shifts until he's properly balanced, then sets out again, more slowly than ever. His shoulder protests at the treatment, but the pain is bearable, more so than that in his leg, and he's able to keep going for another hour or so ―as best as he can judge without a watch or the exact position of the sun. He thinks he still has a pretty good sense of the time, perhaps a tiny remnant of his angelic powers. Or perhaps it's something all humans have, he doesn't really know.

They stop to rest a few times, and when he thinks it's about midday he sets Dean down on the ground by the side of the road where he's found a patch of dying grass. He rummages in his pack for the food he salvaged the day before, preparing a makeshift meal for them. He has no utensils, not even a plate on which they can put the food, but he makes do with the tin cans and their fingers, and they have a cold meal of beans cooked in lard and spam, something Dean once assured him ought to be a last resort. It's salty and the texture is not what he expected, but it's better than going hungry, and apparently Dean has either forgotten his earlier revulsion for the food or else he is of the same opinion that it's preferable to no food at all, because he eats it methodically, licking his fingers and wiping them on his pants leg when he's done. Castiel doesn't bother saying anything about his table manners.

“Ready to go?”

Dean nods, although he still looks as though he's ready to lie down right where he is and go to sleep. Castiel debates staying where they are a while longer ―God knows they could both use the rest― but decides against it. The quicker they get moving, the quicker they'll be able to find a real resting place. When he tries to get to his feet, though, his injured leg buckles under him, refusing to take his weight. He lets out a surprised grunt, drops back onto his ass, and is rewarded with a giggle from Dean.

“Thought that was funny, did you?” he manages a pained smile. If Dean is laughing, it means he hasn't figured out yet that anything is seriously wrong, and the longer he can keep the boy from worrying, the better.

He looks through his pack again, and while no first aid supplies have magically appeared in there, he does tear apart another shirt into a makeshift bandage, wrapping up his calf as tightly as he can. He should have done it to begin with, he thinks ruefully, but it never occurred to him at all. So much for becoming accustomed to being human. He sits for a while, leg outstretched, waiting for the throbbing to die down. He's going to have to find some sort of walking stick, now, and they won't be making much progress now that he's lame and Dean will be walking the majority of the time. Dean sits next to him, tracing lines in the dirt with a small stick, glancing up at him from beneath his bangs every so often. His nose is running, and Castiel is beginning to wonder if that's a perpetual state of affairs for human children. They're going to have to stock up on handkerchiefs, seeing as how tissues appear to be a rare commodity now. He ruffles Dean's hair, forces himself to keep a light tone.

“It's okay. I'm a little more banged up than I thought, but we'll get going in a few minutes.”

Dean doesn't look convinced, keeps scratching at the ground with his stick, wipes his nose on his sleeve. Then abruptly he raises his head, scanning the horizon down the road the way they came from, expression intent. Then before Castiel can so much as reach out to stop him he's on his feet, trotting to the side of the road just as the sound of an engine reaches Castiel's ears, still far enough away that it might easily be a figment of his imagination. The engine belongs to a red sedan, which crests over a low hill a few moments later, and slows to a halt before them. The window rolls down, revealing a young man with dark curly hair and a bright smile.

“Need a lift?”

*~*


	3. Pontiac

The young man's name is Michael ―“But please, call me Mike!”― and Castiel does his very best not to flinch. Mike's girlfriend, Winnie, is behind the wheel of the car, and although she looks a little uncertain at taking in a filthy man and a little boy, she gives them a timid smile when Mike helps Castiel limp to the car. She and Mike both look at him as though he's lost his mind when he tests them for possession, but she passes it off with a nervous giggle.

“Where are you headed?” she asks.

“Idaho.” He straps Dean into the back seat, making sure the seatbelt doesn't cut into his neck, then eases himself in behind Winnie, stretching his leg out to rest in the footwell behind the passenger seat.

“Oh,” Winnie chews on her lip, glances anxiously at him in the rearview mirror. “We're not really going that far...”

He resists laughing, thinks she'll probably take it the wrong way, and lets his head fall back against the seat. He feels weighted down. “We just need to get to somewhere populated. We were attacked last night ―our van, I mean. It overturned.”

Mike turns in the front seat, his eyes even wider than Winnie's. “Oh my God, you were in that van we passed? Jesus. That was a bloodbath. How did you get out alive? It looked like everyone got thrown out of the van when the doors open.”

Castiel makes a vague motion with one hand. “Seatbelt. Just lucky, I suppose.”

“That leg looks pretty bad.”

“It'll keep.”

“You said you were attacked?” Mike is eyeing the shotgun Castiel has propped next to him. “What happened to the people who attacked you?”

“We got away,” Castiel says shortly, and Mike lets the subject drop. “How far are you going?”

“Mike's got family in Illinois,” Winnie ventures, pulling out onto the road after very thoroughly checking all the car mirrors and what Dean once told Castiel was a 'blind spot' behind the driver's seat, as though she's trying to negotiate racing traffic on a busy highway instead of an almost-deserted stretch of road. “We're heading there. We were going to go before, you know, but... well, stuff happened.”

“Winnie...”

“Sorry, sorry. I didn't mean... anyway. We're going to Rockford. We were going to stop overnight in Pontiac, so I guess we can leave you there?” she phrases it as a question, as though Castiel somehow has any control over the decisions they make on their driving destination.

“That will be fine, thank you.”

It's useless to tell himself that he would rather gnaw off one of his own limbs ―to coin a phrase he once heard Sam use― than spend any time at all in Pontiac, Illinois. Still, it's closer to their destination than he'd hoped to get, and now he has a way, he hopes, to at least attempt to repay their kindness.

“I used to live in Pontiac,” he says, the words like ash on his tongue. Castiel has never lived in Pontiac, but Jimmy Novak's life used to be there.

“Did you? That's a coincidence!” Winnie says brightly. He can't decided whether she's vapid, nervous, or maybe both.

“I don't believe in coincidences.”

“Oh.”

The seat isn't comfortable, but he's exhausted. Dean is already dozing against the door, his hair mussed and sticking to the glass of the window with some sort of static electricity. He's pale, Castiel notes with a twinge of concern, with dark circles under his eyes that aren't entirely due to the dirt smudged all over his face. Winnie keeps looking between him and Castiel in the rearview mirror.

“Your son is really cute. What's his name?”

“Dean. He's not my son, though.”

“Oh.”

He manages not to roll his eyes. “I'm sort of his guardian. His parents are both gone, and we don't know where his brother is.”

“Oh poor thing!” Winnie has visibly been smitten ―Castiel is amazed at how women still seem to fall for Dean even in his current incarnation. If the boy ever talks again, he'll have to ask him just what it is that he's doing that has that effect on them. “That's so sad! He must be devastated, poor little kid.”

Castiel makes a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat. “I don't know if my old house ever got sold, but if it's empty, we can always stay there. I haven't been back in... a very long time. I don't know if...” he doesn't know what he's trying to say, doesn't bother finishing his sentence.

“I don't know... We were just going to stay at the community centre there. They have beds and food.”

“That's really nice of you to offer, though,” Mike says, apparently eager to mend whatever bridges his girlfriend might have inadvertently burned by refusing what was at best a diffident offer of hospitality. Castiel decides he's never really going to understand humans.

“We're not there yet,” he reminds them, letting his eyes close.

He dozes for the rest of the trip, doing his best to pretend that he can't hear Mike and Winnie arguing in undertones the entire way.

*~*

Castiel rouses to the sound of Dean coughing next to him in the seat. He sits up, bites back a groan at the crick in his neck and the feeling that his spine might never be entirely straight again. The light is already beginning to fade, but in the distance he can see the outlying buildings of Pontiac, Illinois, and the sight is achingly familiar. He turns to look at Dean, who's already stopped coughing and is struggling to get on his knees to peer out the window in spite of the fact that he's still securely strapped in by his seatbelt. Castiel reaches out and places a hand on the boy's forehead ―another half-remembered gesture of Jimmy's― but he doesn't seem feverish. If anything, he seems better than before, more rested and alert. Certainly, he looks better than Castiel feels.

“Oh, hey, you're awake!” Mike notes, as though it's the revelation of a lifetime. As if they haven't already stopped a few times to attend to calls of nature and to 'stretch their legs,' as Winnie put it. Castiel is beginning to think that he doesn't really like people all that much, but that might be the infected leg wound and the sleep-deprivation talking. It's hard to tell. “We're almost there! Where did you say your old house was?”

“I didn't.”

He slides forward in his seat, wishing he had some form of pain medication, or perhaps that someone would just do him a favour and knock him out until his leg stops feeling as though it's been lit on fire. He notes how Winnie's grip tightens on the steering wheel as he gives directions, but she follows them nonetheless. He's already beginning to regret the invitation he extended, although it was probably the right thing to do. It's not his house ―perhaps isn't even Jimmy's house anymore― and it feels wrong, somehow, as though he's intruding on something sacred and taboo.

When they pull up in front of the house he feels his breath catch in his throat. Even Dean, who's been squirming for the past thirty minutes becomes abruptly still. It was right here, in this very spot, that Jimmy Novak allowed Castiel to use him as a vessel, the first but definitely not the last time. He fights the urge to close his eyes, to bolt from the car. He takes a deep breath, fumbles with the door handle, nearly takes a header into the pavement when his bad leg buckles under him.

Mike trots around the car. “Woah there. You better let me give you a hand,” he tucks a hand under Castiel's elbow, props him up. “You okay?”

Castiel nods. “I just need a minute. I'm a little stiff.”

Understatement. He can practically hear Dean's voice in his head, bites back a smile.

“Yeah, okay. This is the place then?”

“Yes. I have to get Dean.”

He hobbles around the car, Mike's grip firm on his elbow, and opens up the passenger-side door. He unhooks the seatbelt, and pulls Dean out of the seat, staggering a bit under his weight until they get themselves sorted out. He holds the boy on his hip, wavering a bit. Mike helpfully pulls the bags from the trunk and trots to the veranda with them, dropping them at the top of the steps.

The house has not weathered the years well, obviously abandoned for months, if not longer. A fading 'For Sale' sign has fallen over on the lawn and is partially covered in dirt and leaves, the yellowing grass well beyond the point of merely needing to be mowed. Most of the first-floor windows have been boarded up, and the paint is peeling from the clapboard facade and the veranda floor. Castiel finds himself stretching out a hand to scratch at a paint flake on the closest post, places his palm against the wood instead, the grain rough against his skin.

“So, uh. Cas.” Mike rubs the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. “Look. I, uh. You. I mean...”

Castiel takes pity on him. “You're going to keep going.”

Mike relaxes so fast that it looks like he's melting. “Yeah, man. Look, I'm sorry, but you, uh, you kind of make Winnie nervous. She won't explain it to me, but you really freaked her out with that whole 'Christo' business, whatever that was, and she's kind of superstitious... and who can blame her these days? I'm really sorry, but you know how it is, and...”

He holds up a hand. “It's fine. I understand. I'd be nervous if I was Winnie too,” he attempts a smile, but judging by Mike's expression it might be more of a grimace. “Thank you for the ride. You are very good people. Good Samaritans.”

Mike chuckles, but still looks embarrassed. “Hey, no sweat. I mean, we were coming here anyway, right?”

“Still. You didn't have to stop.”

He gets a snort. “What kind of people would we be, leaving a little kid stranded on the side of the road?”

Castiel manages a more genuine smile. “Like I said: good people.”

Mike claps him on the shoulder. “You okay from here?”

“I'll manage. If you're ever in the area of Meridian, Idaho, look me up. The name is Cas.”

“Sure thing, Cas. For what it's worth, I think you're a good guy, even if Winnie thinks you're cursed, or whatever. You take care.”

And with that Mike trots back down the front walk, dead leaves rustling under his feet, slides back into the passenger seat. The car takes off, and neither of its occupants look back.

*~*

The house is musty when Castiel ushers Dean inside. He easily located the spare key where Jimmy and Amelia kept it hidden underneath a planter in the yard ―now filled with dead and dying weeds, and let them in without undue ceremony. The whole place has an empty, echoing feel to it, and a small cloud of dust rises when he drops their bags on the floor.

“It's not quite how I remember it,” he mutters.

Dean has already let go of his hand and is trotting away, craning his neck to get a better look at everything, running small fingers along the wall and leaving black smudges in his wake. Castiel bites his tongue, clamps down hard on the sudden irrational urge to call him back, to keep him away from the dusty remains of a long-vanished family. He doesn't even know if Claire and Amelia are still alive, where they might be if they are, Jimmy's pained _You promised, Cas!_ echoing in his mind again, the way it used to before the end. Over and over, the reproach eating at him.

Castiel follows Dean into the kitchen, which looks untouched. He's not sure why he was expecting the place to have been ransacked by vandals or looters, but apart from the broken windows in the front ―which might be from storms for all he knows― everything is as it was, though liberally coated with dust. He runs a finger along the formica counter, and suddenly Jimmy's memories come flooding back. He can hear Amelia making plans to replace it with granite, or even marble one day if they can swing it: selling ad space isn't all that lucrative, she's saying in Jimmy's mind, her expression speculative, but they aren't hurting for money, either, and she has visions of a new kitchen in which she could try her hand at making homemade candy.

Castiel does his best to shake off the voice of Jimmy's ghost. Dean is looking at the refrigerator, reaching up with questing fingers to play with the ladybug-shaped magnets there. There's a family portrait, taken about eight months before Jimmy Novak said 'yes,' that has slid halfway down the door of the fridge, and Dean tugs on it, pulls it down to look at it. He glances up, hazel eyes narrowing, as though he's assessing Castiel, comparing him to the familiar-yet-different features of Jimmy, smiling at the camera, one arm wrapped around Amelia's shoulders, his left hand resting on Claire's shoulder, wedding ring polished and bright. They all look happy, smiling and relaxed, and Castiel knows that Amelia had started talking about perhaps trying for another baby, now that Claire was older.

“That's Jimmy,” he tells Dean. “You remember him, right? You met him... a long time ago.”

Dean doesn't answer, but holds the photograph carefully in both hands, taking care not to smudge or crumple it. After a moment he hands it over, clearly expecting Castiel to put it back. Castiel plucks a magnet from the fridge and sets it where he remembers it belonging, next to what looks like Claire's last report card. It's mostly A's, a couple of B's, and a gold star from her teacher along with a note written in that curling cursive script that all elementary school teachers seem to have. He's not sure how he knows that, thinks it's probably one of Jimmy's opinions rather than actual fact. He looks down to see Dean staring up at him intently.

“What is it?”

Dean points to the picture.

“That's Amelia and Claire, Jimmy's wife and daughter.”

Dean huffs impatiently, shakes his head.

“That's not what you were asking. Do you remember them?”

A nod, and another questioning look.

“You want to know where they are?”

Dean nods, puts his knuckle in his mouth to suck on it, and without thinking Castiel reaches out and pulls it away, a little more roughly than he intended. Instantly he feels terrible, the stricken look on Dean's face ―eyes suddenly brimming with unshed tears― it's like a stab to the gut.

“I'm sorry, Deano. It's just that your hands are filthy. How about we go see if there's anything like running water left in this house? Then we can wash your hands and you can put your entire fist in your mouth if you want. How does that sound?” he tries for a light-hearted tone, but Dean has his bottom lip trapped in his teeth, and Castiel is pretty sure that he's about to be treated to his very first bout of honest-to-goodness tears. He lowers himself stiffly to one knee, biting back a curse as the movement sends pain lancing through his leg, pulling at the edges of his wound.

“Come on, don't cry,” he brushes the first tear away with his thumb, and somehow manages to feel even worse when Dean swallows very hard and makes an obvious effort to hold back his tears. “I'm sorry, okay?”

He gets a nod and a quiet hiccup, decides that's probably as close to forgiveness as he's going to get. He uses the counter to pull himself to his feet, and on impulse he twists the taps in the sink. To his surprise, he hears the pipes shudder and clang, and a moment later a stream of rusty water pours from the faucet, spattering the sink with brown droplets, before running clear. Castiel throws his head back, feels a jubilant laugh bubble up from somewhere inside his chest.

“Would you look at that? I guess there's life left in this house after all.”

*~*

He runs a bath for Dean once he's managed to get them both up the stairs. He's kind of amazed that there's hot water at all, can't really remember what kind of hot water heater Jimmy had. It wasn't the kind of thing Jimmy was often given to considering. He bends over to strip Dean of his clothes, only to have Dean squirm away from him.

“Dean. Hold still.”

Dean shakes his head, pulls back, yanks insistently on his sleeve instead.

“What?” It comes out a little more impatiently than he intended, but he's cold, he's tired, his leg hurts, and he just damned well wants to get them both clean and fed and put the last twenty-four hours behind them.

Dean lets go of his sleeve, drops his hand and puts it carefully on Castiel's knee, looks at his leg then back up, his face screwed up with worry, and suddenly Castiel understands.

“Are you worried about my leg?” A nod. He rubs a hand over his eyes. “Okay. You don't need to worry about that. You let me deal with it, all right?” Dean shakes his head, and Castiel recognizes the stubborn set to his jaw. “You're not going to let this go, are you?” Another headshake, and Castiel scratches the back of his neck, sighs. “Dean, I can't... I need to make sure you're taken care of first, do you understand? Just do it for me.”

Dean huffs a sigh, then rolls his eyes and lifts up his arms so Castiel can pull his shirt over his head, and submits pliantly enough when Castiel strips the rest of his clothes off and lifts him into the tub. He squirms as Castiel rubs him downs with a washcloth, giggles when Castiel sticks a washcloth-covered finger in his ear and wriggles it, and splashes water at him when Castiel washes his hair.

“Hey!” Castiel sputters, then laughs. “I can't figure you out,” he says after a moment, scrubbing the dirt from the boy's back. “One minute you're four years old, and the next you're acting as though you're exactly as you were... well, before.” He looks down, trying to find any sign at all of the Dean he knows in the wide hazel eyes, but then he's never been especially good at reading Dean's expressions.

“All right, I think that's as clean as you're going to get.” He lifts Dean out of the tub, wraps him in a big blue towel he pulled from the linen closet. It's clean enough, once he's beaten most of the dust off the one side that wasn't protected from being folded, and tucks it clean-side in around Dean's shoulders, rubbing him down until he's sure he's dry. “Okay. We need to find you pajamas.”

He carries Dean down the hall, covers up his moment of hesitation before opening the door to Claire's bedroom, her name still carefully printed on the wooden star hung on the door. He settles Dean on the bed, still swaddled in his towel, bare feet just sticking out under the folds. The boy makes an unmistakable grimace of disgust when Castiel pulls out some of Claire's old pajamas from a drawer.

“What, does the pink offend you?” Castiel quirks a smile, bites his lip as he runs a careful finger over the rhinestone stars on a nightgown, swallows the sudden sob that threatens to rip through him. Claire wasn't even his child, he reminds himself sternly, although he knew her more intimately than even Jimmy did. The bond between angel and vessel is nothing like the one between parent and child, and yet... He finds a pair of green footie pajamas with a teddy bear on the front, outgrown by Claire and buried at the bottom of the drawer years ago. Dean's nose has managed to start running again in the five minutes it's been since Castiel got him clean. He pulls out one of the cloths he's been using as makeshift handkerchiefs and wipes the boy's nose, ignoring his offended squirming.

“You hungry?”

Dean shrugs, then looks meaningfully at his leg. Castiel just rolls his eyes and tugs the pajama pants up over his hips, threads his arms into the sleeves, and does up the zipper. “All set. You want to lie down for a few minutes while I get cleaned up?”

Dean nods, crawls up onto the bed, and Castiel turns back the quilt so he doesn't get covered in dust. He pats Dean's arm, murmurs an order to stay put, and goes to run the shower. He keeps the water lukewarm, bordering on cold ―he doesn't know whether the hot water will last, and he wants to save some for the morning― but the shower still feels heavenly on his aching muscles. The water stings as it hits his shoulder and runs down his leg, and he ends up having to sit under the spray when he tries to wash the worst of the dirt from his leg, biting the inside of his cheeks against the pain.

He switches off the shower and sits on the toilet lid, foot propped against the lip of the tub, the Novak's first aid kit on the counter next to him. It's harder than he thought to deal with the injury: for one thing, he's at an awkward angle, and for another he keeps having to stop when the pain intensifies. He's beginning to develop a whole new appreciation for Sam Winchester's ability to stitch up his own wounds, often one-handed. He looks at the clothes he's left lying on the floor, filthy and covered in blood, both human and whatever passes for it in vampires, and feels his gorge rise. He resolves to burn the clothing in the morning, unwilling even to try to salvage it. He'll use some of Jimmy's clothes ―at least he's sure those will fit.

He's not hungry, even after spending most of the day without eating so much as a bite, but he tells himself he should probably try to make something for Dean. There's even cutlery in the kitchen drawers. When he goes to fetch the boy, though, he finds him curled up on the bed, the knuckles of his right hand in his mouth, left arm around the stuffed rabbit Claire always kept on her bed. It doesn't even occur to Castiel to try to wake him for food. Instead he tucks the blankets up tightly around Dean's chin, watches him for a moment, the even rise and fall of his chest, then on an impulse he doesn't entirely understand leans over him and brushes his lips in a gentle kiss to his forehead.

*~*

It's still dark when Castiel awakens, twisted on himself in the armchair in the Novak's living room. He doesn't remember falling asleep, just wanting to sit down and rest for a moment. He scrubs at his eyes, stretches the kinks out of his back, and is pleased to discover that the fierce burn in his leg has eased. It still hurts, but it's a distant ache under the bandage, and he thinks he may have escaped infection after all, in spite of everything.

He should go to bed, but he can't bring himself to sleep in Jimmy's old bed, the one he shared with his wife. The one in which Claire was conceived, the one blessed by their union. It feels wrong, like a betrayal. Even the thought leaves a sour taste in his mouth, makes his skin feel a little too tight. Instead he pulls back the dust-covered sheet that was draped over the living room sofa and lies back, staring at the ceiling until exhaustion claims him again.

In the morning he awakens to Dean patting his face insistently. He sits up with a groan, scrubs a hand over what feels like much more than a day's stubble. It's barely light out. “Sleep well?” he manages. He doesn't think he's much of a morning person.

Dean grins at him, baring pearly little baby teeth in a smile that in another twenty years will have women throwing themselves at him. The boy follows him to the kitchen in clear hopes of breakfast, padding along in his footed pajamas, the fabric whispering quietly against the floor. Castiel manages to cobble together a makeshift breakfast of more spam and canned pears, while Dean sits on a high stool, elbows on the island in the centre of the kitchen, feet kicking at the rungs.

After breakfast Castiel takes them to the community centre, little more than a small office building that's been emptied out and then filled again with long trestle tables and white boards filled with lists and names and what appear to be projects. He catches sight of Mike and Winnie, but their half-hearted acknowledgment of him is a clear enough signal, and he steers clear of them, Dean trailing behind him, knuckle stuck firmly in his mouth. Castiel has dim recollections that it's not good for small children to suck their fingers ―something about their teeth growing crooked― but he also remembers much more vividly the expression on Dean's face when he tried to stop him from doing it the night before, and he's not sure he can stomach the consequences. He puts out a hand to attract the attention of an older woman who acts as though she might be in charge of the place, or at least know what's going on.

“Excuse me,” he starts. She turns, startled, and he has to resist the impulse to apologize for even existing. “Uh, I... it's just. I mean, I used to live ―I used to know people who lived here. Before, that is, and I was hoping to find out what happened to them. Do you know if anyone has kept track of that sort of thing?” He doesn't know when he began fumbling his words. When he was an angel, his diction was impeccable, his choice of words always exact. He's never had to search for what he wanted to say, the way humans do.

She nods. “There's a list. It's not complete, but people add to it when they can. It's in the back room,” she motions with one hand. “Just go straight down that hall, you can't miss it.”

“Thank you,” he takes Dean's free hand and all but pulls him along behind him.

He stops short when he arrives in the back room, feels his mouth drop open. He had imagined a list of several pages, perhaps pinned to a cork board, but it's nothing of the kind. The names of the dead and presumed dead have been carefully printed on brown paper pasted to the walls. Everywhere he looks there are columns of names, written in letters half the size of his thumbnail, lined up in neat rows as far as the eye can see, so many that after a moment they seem to blur together. He clutches the door frame, no longer certain that his legs can support him.

Dean wriggles past him, sucking on his finger, and places his palm on the list, eyes wide. Castiel forces himself to take a deep breath, and, reaching up, places his index finger next to the first name, and begins to read. It takes the better part of twenty minutes, but eventually his finger finds what he was both expecting and dreading.

 _Novak, Amelia 1972-2010_   
_Novak, Claire 2002-2010_

He pulls his hand away from the wall, presses it against his mouth, can't stifle the sob that rips through him, threatens to tear him apart from the inside out. For the second time he staggers, and before his knees give way he lets himself slide down against the wall, the weight of the names behind him propping him up. Another sob wells up in his chest, and a third, and he curls in on himself, shaking. He barely feels Dean's hand on his knee, but he straightens a bit when Dean burrows insistently under his arm and wraps small arms around his chest.

“They're gone,” he chokes. “I promised him, and they're gone. Oh, _God_.”

*~*

He doesn't know how much time passes. Dean climbs into his lap and stays there, head resting against his chest, maybe listening to his heartbeat, both fists bunched in Castiel's shirt, and Castiel is almost ashamed at the comfort it brings him. Dean coughs, and it sounds deeper than the quick, dry cough he had the day before. Castiel rouses himself, wipes his eyes on his sleeve, then presses a hand to the boy's forehead.

“Hey, you sick?” his voice comes out as a croak. “I bet if you could talk, you'd sound like me.” He strokes Dean's head, isn't sure whether he feels any warmer than before. “Dean?”

Dean coughs again, and against all odds tries to burrow further into Castiel's ribcage. He rubs Dean's arm. “You want to head back? Maybe have a nap?” He can't tell if the movement he feels is a nod or a head shake, but he decides to take it as acquiescence. “Okay. I'm going to see if there's medication to be found around here. I don't like the sound of that cough.”

It turns out that cough medication isn't to be had for free anywhere in the country anymore, or at least not in Pontiac. He has nothing in his meagre belongings worth bartering, but after a few minutes of intense negotiation with a man who appears to be wearing more grease than clothing, he finds himself agreeing to help prepare a meal for what sounds like several dozen people in the morning in exchange for a small bottle of the stuff. He sends a mental 'thank you' to Charlie for teaching him how not to ruin eggs, and gathers Dean into his arms.

“Ready to go?”

Dean just leans his head against his collarbone, and not for the first time Castiel feels a bit breathless at the apparently unwavering faith this child has in him, as though Castiel is the only thing standing between him and the world.

“I suppose I am,” he murmurs, then feels his mouth quirk when Dean pulls back to look at him. “Never mind. It's not important.”

He finds fresh sheets in the linen closet and makes up Claire's bed. He rescues the stuffed rabbit from where it nearly got smothered by a pillow, and hands it back to Dean. Dean is definitely sick, he thinks, feeling as though some small creature has taken up residence in his stomach in a wild fluttering of fragile wings. The boy's cheeks are flushed, but the rest of his face is pale, dark smudges under his eyes, and Castiel wants to kick himself for not noticing before, for dragging the poor kid behind him all morning while he indulged in his guilt.

Dean wriggles determinedly off the bed when Castiel tries to get him to take a nap. He might be sick, but he's obviously not sick enough simply to go to sleep until he's feeling better. He glares at Castiel at the merest suggestion that he ought to lie down, and Castiel rubs the back of his neck, at a loss.

“You never wanted to rest when you were fully-grown, either,” he comments, resigning himself to the notion that Dean at four years old might be even more stubborn than at thirty-one, something he wouldn't have thought possible up until now.

He doesn't know the first thing about sick children. He has a few of Jimmy's memories of Claire being sick, but it appears Amelia was the one to spend more time with the child during those times, with a few notable exceptions. Well, if the child won't sleep, he reasons, then they need to find something else to keep him occupied. He scans the room, sees a stack of boxes on a low shelf containing what appear to be jigsaw puzzles. He squats and sorts through the boxes, finds one featuring a zoo scene, and pulls it out.

“How about this? It has monkeys,” he offers, picking up the wooden board that Claire used as a flat surface for her puzzles and settling cross-legged on the floor. Dean stares dubiously at him, sucking on his knuckle, apparently oblivious to the fact that his nose is running again. Castiel shrugs. “Suit yourself. I'm going to put this together. You can help me, if you want.”

He pulls the lid off the box, and begins sorting through the pieces. Dean watches from the other side of the room, expression doubtful, coughing quietly every so often. After a few moments he edges closer, plops down on the floor next to him, watching intently. Then, slowly, he reaches out and plucks a jigsaw piece from the box, keeping a wary eye on Castiel out of the corner of his eye, as though he might change his mind and confiscate the entire thing. Castiel gets the feeling that, the last time Dean was a child, there wasn't much time for jigsaw puzzles.

“You have an edge piece there. It's green, so that means it's part of that tree in the picture,” Castiel says, and Dean gives him a flat look. “All right, all right. You can do it entirely by yourself if you want. I'll just work on the zookeeper over here, then.”

Dean doesn't answer, just bends over the puzzle with a look of intense concentration, and slowly begins fitting the pieces back together.

*~*

The puzzle comes together slowly, but once they've been working on it for a while, it becomes obvious to Castiel that there are pieces missing, that it will never be complete again. He thinks it might be in the nature of puzzles to lose pieces of themselves that can never be regained. It might be a metaphor for something, but he can't bring himself to care. Dean is listing against him, eyelids drooping, and his coughing has increased in frequency in the last few minutes. Castiel makes him swallow a spoonful of the cough medicine, trying not to laugh at the disgusted face he makes, then carefully cuts an aspirin in half and makes him swallow it in an attempt to bring down the fever that's still making his face flush.

“I know you don't care for the taste, but it will make you feel better. Trust me.”

Dean makes another face, and wriggles away when Castiel tries once again to put him to bed. This time, Castiel puts down his foot. “No, there's no negotiating this one. You are taking a nap. Even if it means just lying down quietly. You don't have to sleep if you don't want to.”

Dean's lower lip juts out, and for a moment Castiel thinks he's going to have a fight on his hands, but it seems as though the boy might be feeling sicker than he's been letting on ―another thing that hasn't changed much. He accepts the stuffed bunny Castiel hands to him, holding it to his chest with his forearm, allows himself to be coaxed under the sheets, and Castiel wonders just how long he's been feeling sick and never let on.

“I'm so sorry,” he murmurs, once Dean is tucked up in the bed again, watching him with fever-bright eyes. “I should have noticed earlier that you were sick.” Predictably enough Dean doesn't answer, and he sighs. “Try to sleep, okay? I'll... make soup. If I can.” Dean settles, but keeps his eyes open, watches him as he leaves.

He rummages in the kitchen cabinets, finds the pantry, and locates several cans of soup, along with a box of instant rice, remembers Sam saying something about Dean making tomato rice soup when they were sick as children. He hasn't tried his hand at rice yet, but the instructions are clearly marked on the label, and although he does scorch the first batch after forgetting it on the lit burner, he manages the second batch well enough, and scrapes the rice into the tomato soup, stirring it until it's thoroughly blended and steaming. He pours it into a mug, reasoning that it will be easier to consume in this fashion rather than risking a spill on the bed. Dean is drowsy but still awake when he brings the mug upstairs, set on a small tray since Castiel doesn't quite trust his balance on his still-injured leg. He puts the tray down on the foot of the bed, sits next to Dean.

“I brought soup. I believe you are partial to tomato rice?”

Dean nods sleepily and sits up. His hands are a little small for the mug, and so Castiel puts a hand underneath it to help him hold it steady, cautions him to blow on the soup to cool it before drinking. Dean takes a couple of noisy sips until Castiel tilts the mug for him, then manages to drink about half of it before pulling away, nearly dropping the mug and the soup in the process. Castiel grabs the mug before Dean scalds himself, and puts it aside, tucking him back under the covers. Soup can be re-heated. He looks down, realizes that Dean is watching him, his eyes anxious under heavy lids. He smooths the hair from his forehead.

“Don't worry,” he says, unsure what might be going through the boy's mind. “Everything's going to be fine.”

Dean blinks, then appears to accept the verdict, his fist held close to his mouth but not quite in it, resting on top the rabbit's head. He's still watching Castiel, though, his eyes tracking his every movement, obviously fighting to stay awake. Castiel suddenly remembers Dean being awake early that morning, remembers that he didn't check to see that he was well and truly asleep the night before, and his gut twists when it all starts to make sense. He sits on the bed, strokes Dean's hair.

“It's safe to sleep here. I won't let anything happen to you.”

Try as he might, though, Dean is still fighting sleep with every ounce of strength in his body. “Dean, are you still having bad dreams?” There's no answer. “Would you like to take a nap with me, then?” He gets a tired nod. “All right, then. But you have to promise to sleep.”

Gently he nudges Dean over a bit, stretches out next to him on Claire's small bed, his feet hanging off the end of the bed until he draws up his knees a bit. He wraps an arm over the boy's tiny frame, draws him close, a hand splayed over the small chest. He can feel Dean's heartbeat flutter beneath his palm, then gradually slow, his breathing evening out into sleep. For a long time he stays absolutely still, listening to each breath in the quiet of the room, and wonders if, after all, he might not find a measure of peace, here.

*~*

His peace of mind is short-lived. By the time night falls Dean is well and truly ill, his fever climbing steadily, and he's coughing almost constantly, in spite of Castiel's giving him the maximum dosage of the cough medicine. The cough turns nasty, wet and hacking, and near midnight it begins to sound like... well, like nothing Castiel has ever heard before. The nearest approximation he can think of is a bark, like a dog, or perhaps a seal. He's never felt as helpless in his entire existence, not even when the world nearly ended.

Dean clings to him like a limpet, or perhaps more accurately like a very small octopus with an insufficient amount of limbs, and won't let go even long enough for Castiel to fetch water or medication. Castiel concedes defeat, wraps a flannel dressing gown that used to belong to Jimmy around him, and simply carries him whenever he needs to move. It seems a simple enough solution, and it keeps Dean reasonably content, even if it's not particularly restful for either of them. He coaxes the remainder of the soup into the boy, gives him another dose of the cough syrup and aspirin, and holds him in his lap while he coughs, stroking his head because he can't think of anything else to do, waiting for him to fall asleep again.

In the morning Dean seems a little better, the cough easing a bit, but he's still listless and mildly feverish, and definitely cranky. He fights Castiel on everything, from the medicine to the idea that he should brush his teeth or even have breakfast, and after less than two hours Castiel is at his wits' end, trying to clamp down on the impulse to shake Dean until he does what he's told. Intellectually he knows that the boy is sick, frightened, and very very young; that he doesn't entirely understand what's happening. But it's hard to remember that the fourth time Dean twists away at the last moment and nearly spills the cough syrup on the bedspread.

“Dean, come on!” he snaps, and is rewarded with instant tears. Dean is obviously trying to hold them back, with no success whatsoever, and hiccups miserably. Castiel feels his shoulders sag. “Aw, Deano, don't cry. Come here,” he pulls him into his lap and presses a kiss to the side of his head. “Come on, now, I didn't mean it like that,” he murmurs.

That's apparently enough to destroy what little self-control Dean had left, and he twists around and sobs brokenheartedly into Castiel's shirt, stopping only when he starts coughing too hard to keep crying. Castiel scoops him up, carries him to the bathroom and sits him on the toilet, wipes at his face with a wet facecloth as Dean hiccups and coughs, wiping away the worst of the tears and snot, trying to gauge just how bad the coughing is. The fit does pass, much to his relief, and he rinses the facecloth and washes Dean's face again, until it's pink and shining.

“You want to give that medicine another try?” he asks gently, and this time he gets a reluctant nod, Dean's eyes fixed on the floor. He chucks him under the chin. “Hey, I'm not mad. I just want you to get better. You want that too, right?”

Another nod, and this time Dean opens his mouth and swallows the medicine without fuss or complaint, and allows Castiel to carry him back to bed, where he resumes his tenacious arthropod act. There's no question of going out again ―although he feels a bit guilty at defaulting on his promise to help cook that meal― but it's clear that Dean is too sick to go out, and to leave him alone here is unthinkable. He looks down at the boy, who is stubbornly refusing even to try to sleep, and decides to try a different tactic.

“Would you like me to read you a story? There are books in here. We could read one of those.”

Dean thinks about it for a moment, then nods and puts his knuckle back in his mouth to suck on as Castiel gets up to peruse Claire's bookshelves. His gaze lights upon a small yellow book with a rabbit on the cover, and he's suddenly flooded with memories of Jimmy curled up on the bed next to Claire, reading to her from it. He plucks the book from the shelf, comes back to settle next to Dean, letting him lean against him, and pulls the blanket up over them both.

“Here was once a velveteen rabbit,” he starts, “and in the beginning he was really splendid. He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be; his coat was spotted brown and white, he had real thread whiskers, and his ears were lined with pink sateen.”

Dean looks up, scrunching up his nose, and Castiel explains. “It was Claire's favourite book. I think you'll like it.”

Dean lets his head fall back against Castiel's ribcage, which Castiel takes as agreement. He keeps reading for a while, until he feels his voice starting to give way. He tells himself it's because he's not used to reading aloud, keeps going.

“'It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.'”

He looks down, sees that Dean has fallen asleep, the stuffed rabbit under his arm. He settles back to wait, and closes his eyes when he feels them unaccountably begin to burn.

*~*

By the time night rolls around again, all of Castiel's hopes that Dean might be on the mend are dashed. The cough is back in full force, the fever so high that Dean just clings to him and whimpers between bouts of coughing. Castiel seems to remember that small children are prone to high fevers, but it's the barking cough that worries him the most, accompanied now by a raspy, wheezing sound when Dean inhales. As far as Castiel knows, there are no functioning hospitals anymore. There's no one to call, no way to figure out what might be wrong with him ―which is clearly more than just a simple cold― and he is, once again, entirely out of his depth. It's becoming commonplace, he reflects bitterly.

After a while he remembers that Amelia kept some sort of medical encyclopedia in the house. Sam would probably recommend he research Dean's symptoms, and if he can find the book it would go a long way to at least tell him what he's dealing with. He extricates himself from Dean's grasp with whispered promises to come right back, that he's not going far, and hardens his heart when Dean looks as though he's kicked him repeatedly. He goes through the few bookshelves in the living room until he finds a thick hardcover book titled the “A-Z Family Medical Encyclopedia,” which must be what he was thinking of. He brings the book upstairs with him along with a mug of re-heated soup which Dean refuses, and spends the next half hour carefully researching all of the symptoms he's witnessed. Finally he shuts the book, speaks softly to Dean so he won't startle him.

“Okay, Deano. We're going to try something that's hopefully going to make you feel better, okay?”

He keeps Dean wrapped in a blanket and carries him to the bathroom, limp and unresisting in his arms, although the boy is still awake and reasonably alert. He seats him on the mat by the tub, hurries back to the bedroom to fetch some pillows and another blanket, and when he comes back he sets about making him as comfortable as possible.

“We're going to pretend it's like a nest,” he says as seriously as he can manage. “You're going to be like a bird in... a tropical rainforest.”

He thinks he's babbling, a bit like Dean and Sam used to do when they were nervous. He reaches past Dean and switches on the shower, hot water only, drawing the curtain back so the spray doesn't hit them, and sits back while steam slowly begins to fill the room, wiping Dean's face with a cold washcloth to try to keep the fever at bay, at least a little bit. Soon he's sweltering, sweat running down his neck, and Dean's face is flushed bright red, but he's no longer coughing as badly, and the awful rasping noise he was making has ceased completely, and by now Castiel is willing to take any sign of improvement at all.

He keeps Dean in the steam-filled bathroom for as long as either of them can stand before carrying him back to bed, and Dean drops off to sleep almost immediately, wrapped around Castiel's midriff. The bed isn't really made for someone of Castiel's height and build, and his thoughts are turning too quickly in his head to afford him much rest, but he finds that he's not as disturbed by the idea of staying awake as he might be. Before, when he was still an angel, he had no need for sleep at all, and he likes the thought that, now, he can still hold vigil over Dean while he sleeps, and keep the worst of the nightmares at bay.

Sometime in the wee hours of the morning the fever breaks, and once daylight begins trickling through the bedroom window, he's almost certain that Dean is now through the worst of the illness. His breathing is steady and unlaboured, his colour good, no longer the hectic flush of fever or the unhealthy pallor of the day before. He blinks sleepily when Castiel presses a hand to his forehead to confirm his diagnosis, and offers up a tentative smile. Castiel smiles back.

“Good morning. I see you are recovering. That's very good. Are you hungry?” Dean nods, his smile widening. “All right, then. We'll have breakfast, and then you can have a bath. It will make you feel better after being sick all night.”

Dean doesn't say anything, but he gets up on his own, the stuffed rabbit tucked under his arm, and pads down the stairs. If nothing else, the fact that he's no longer clinging to Castiel like a piece of Velcro is a very encouraging sign. Castiel follows him down the stairs, mentally reviewing their food stores. Tomorrow he'll go back to the community centre, once he's certain Dean is completely recovered, in order to fulfil his obligation to the man who sold him the cough medicine, first, and second to see about restocking their supplies, perhaps with something a little more palatable than canned fruit and spam. Dean waits for him at the bottom of the stairs, bares his teeth in a grin.

“What are you so happy about?”

Dean just shrugs, keeps grinning, and at least for now Castiel can't bring himself to resent any of it.

*~*


	4. The Individual Language of God

There is something satisfying in the preparation of food, Castiel decides, even after spending an entire afternoon on his feet, preparing vats of a kind of stew that is very long on tired-looking vegetables and rather short on anything that looks like meat, but with enough spices and potatoes he's able to make it more than palatable by the time he's done. Castiel was built to serve, indeed as all the angels were, and working in the spacious-if-makeshift kitchen feels surprisingly like coming home. The room itself is bright and feels warm, and he finds a peaceful rhythm peeling potatoes and dropping them into the large stainless steel pots of simmering liquid. It smells heavenly.

Initially he was met with distrust from the people at the centre, especially Murray, the man to whom he gave his promise that he would come help, but once he's proven himself willing their attitudes thaw somewhat. His explanation that Dean was ill seems to weigh in in his favour, and Dean quickly becomes a favourite with the women, which doesn't surprise Castiel in the slightest. He leaves Dean to their tender mercies, perched on a chair with the stuffed rabbit in his lap ―he refuses to be parted from it anymore― and submitting to being petted and fussed over with much better grace than the day before, to Castiel's annoyance. It figures that Dean would be on his best behaviour around women, he reflects, rolling his eyes.

“So, Cas, where you from?” Murray asks, wiping his eyes. He's been chopping onions for the past twenty minutes, and tears have been pouring steadily into his beard and sideburns the entire time.

“We were in Detroit, before,” Castiel says, choosing his words carefully. “We travelled from there. I had ―family― here in Pontiac. We've been staying at their old house. I think they wouldn't have minded. They were... earnest. Genuine in their faith. They were the kind to offer hospitality when it was needed.”

“They're not there now?”

He shakes his head. “I, uh... found their names on the wall yesterday.”

“Damn. I'm sorry for your loss.”

Castiel bites his lip, manages a nod. He can't tell this stranger just how badly he's failed at all his missions. He goes back to peeling the potatoes, focussing on the task as a way of banishing the newest dark thoughts that threaten to overwhelm him. Every time he thinks he is finally beginning to grasp how to handle all these human emotions, another one comes up out of nowhere to blindside him. Emotions don't follow a logical pattern, the bad coexist easily with the good, and the whole process is exhausting.

“You going to be staying around here, then? Seeing as how this makes you practically one of us.”

“I'm afraid not. I am taking Dean to Idaho. There is someone there we are supposed to meet.”

“Oh yeah?” Murray is curious, understandably so, and Castiel feels silly for being suspicious of a man who has done nothing but exchange cough syrup for a day's worth of help preparing food. It must come from nearly two years of spending all his time with the Winchesters, he thinks.

“I don't know if you've heard of him. His name is Nicholas, but I wasn't given a last name. I was told he might have some answers for me.”

“Answers?”

He grimaces, rubs the back of his neck. “It's a little hard to explain.”

“Try me. You never know, maybe I can help. Ugh, damn onions. Make me tear up like a little girl,” Murray drags a sleeve over his eyes, then looks curiously over his shoulder at Castiel.

“I... the best way to put it, I suppose, is that I'm missing some time. I'm hoping he can help me fill in the blanks of what happened.”

“How much time?”

“Six months. Give or take.”

Murray's expression suddenly becomes guarded. “I see. What about the boy, there?”

“What about him?”

“He missing time too?”

“I wouldn't know.” Castiel bristles at the man's tone. “He hasn't spoken since I found him.”

“Tough break.”

He's not sure what to make of Murray's comment, falls silent rather than give away any more than he already has. Perhaps a healthy level of paranoia is necessary in order to stay safe, he thinks belatedly. Dean would certainly not approve of his speaking to complete strangers about their situation, if he were at all in a position to approve of anything right now. Castiel glances over at him, perched on the wooden kitchen chair on which he's been sitting for the duration. Someone has provided him with a battered picture book which tells the story of what looks like a little girl with an enormous red dog for a pet, and he's bent over it, pointing out the pictures to the stuffed rabbit under his arm. His face is pinched in concentration, and Castiel feels the corners of his mouth twitch into an involuntary smile at the sight.

“He's cute as a button, I'll give you that,” Murray comments, startling him out of his reverie. “How about you give me a hand with these stew pots? Then we can do some asking around, see if anyone's heard of this Nicholas guy you want to find.”

Castiel nods, and picks up one of the pots. He has no intention of taking Murray up on his offer, but he sees no sense in antagonizing him. For now, there is food and human company, and that will suffice.

*~*

Castiel decides that they ought to spend just a bit longer in Jimmy's old house. Dean is better but still shaky from his bout of croup, if that's what it was, and the house is in good enough working order that it provides a haven for them both. In exchange for a few more days' worth of cooking and helping around the community centre he procures better food for himself and Dean: some bread, a handful of eggs, and several more cans of food for the road. Castiel is nobody's fool, and he knows he's only lingering here because of the house's ties to Jimmy. When he was an angel, material things like these held little importance for him, or so it seemed, but now that he's tied to the earth, he's beginning to understand how even small belongings stir echoes in the soul, under the right circumstances. Perhaps 'soul' is the wrong word ―he's not sure that he has a soul, not even now that he's human― but he can't think of a better one.

He spends a great deal of time outside in the garden with Dean. The fresh air is as good if not better to treat croup than the steamy air of the bathroom, and Dean is happy to be able to run to his heart's content in Jimmy's overgrown garden, kicking Claire's old soccer ball around and dragging that same stuffed rabbit everywhere. Castiel has already understood that the rabbit now belongs wholeheartedly to Dean, and he thinks that Claire would have wanted someone to love her bunny after she was gone. He joins Dean in an impromptu game of soccer, or something that at least passes for soccer, kicking the ball back and forth, and testing the injury to his leg, which is healing faster than he anticipated.

Castiel makes pancakes for Dean one morning from a box he finds in the pantry, using one of the eggs he acquired through barter, and is rewarded with a grin and an attempt to feed the stuffed rabbit a piece of pancake, smearing butter and sugar on the rabbit's face to match Dean's own. Castiel sits across from him, feet propped up on the rungs of his kitchen stool, and digs a fork into his pancakes. It's not so bad, living like this, he thinks. Perhaps he was mistaken in thinking they should be digging for answers to questions he's not even sure he knows how to pose. Pontiac is familiar, and safe, and if nothing else he owes it to Dean to keep him as safe as possible. Dragging the boy halfway across the country resulted in two close encounters with death and an illness that he’s just starting to shake off. It's irresponsible, he tells himself. Dean is no longer able to take care of himself, and so it falls to Castiel to make sure nothing happens to him.

He spends the morning with his thoughts going in circles. Eventually he distracts himself by watching Dean race around the yard, wrapped up warmly in layers of wool, his cheeks and nose red from the cold. There's no guarantee that the mysterious Nicholas will be of any help, if he's even still in Idaho. For all Castiel knows, he may be dead or have moved on. He might not want to help them, if he's a hunter or a former hunter. Previous experience has taught Castiel that not only are hunters a suspicious, paranoid bunch, but that there was little love lost between them and the Winchesters, for the most part. He might be asking for trouble even just thinking of taking Dean there, into the vipers' den, as it were.

Murray has made it clear that he can stay and help, that they have use for what few skills he has. Even with the tiny amount of cleaning he's done, Jimmy's house is already feeling like it could easily become a home, and if he's honest with himself Castiel will admit to wanting to breathe some life back into the place. It's a small, entirely inadequate way of repaying Jimmy, Claire and Amelia for getting caught in the crossfire of the war between Heaven and Hell, but at least it's something. Dean has never had a home outside cheap motel rooms and the back seat of his beloved Impala ―and God only knows where that car is now, if it even still exists at all and wasn't destroyed during the Visitation― and Castiel wants nothing more than to be able to give him what he never had. Perhaps, he tells himself, that's why Dean was returned to him as a child instead of an adult, so that he might have a chance at the life he never had before.

He's almost decided by the time he gives Dean his bath and puts him to bed that night. Put aside the wild goose chase, and make the best of what he's been given. He sees no reason to change his mind.

*~*

The demons attack in the small hours of the morning. Castiel knows supernatural creatures are still about, still a very present threat, and yet somehow it never crossed his mind that they might come here. It's stupid, he'll tell himself later: after all, it wouldn't be the first time that demons violated the sanctity of the Novaks' hearth.

Castiel awakens to the splintering sound of the front door coming off its hinges. He almost falls off the bed in his hurry to get to the stairs, turns around to see Dean standing behind him, eyes wide and frightened, his face pale and pinched.

“Stay here. Hide under the bed. Don't come out until I tell you it's safe, you hear me?”

He doesn't stop to see whether Dean has heeded his instructions. The shotgun is downstairs, and loaded with conventional rounds, in any case. If he's lucky, he tells himself, these will be simple looters, and nothing more, but something tells him that he's not going to be that lucky. He doesn't even have time to locate the intruders before he feels his feet leave the floor, feels himself sailing through the air to collide heavily with the far wall in the living room. One of the family portraits on the walls comes loose, crashes to the floor in a jingle of breaking glass. He picks himself up gingerly from the floor, brushing shards of glass from his pants, and finds himself face to face with two demons, possessing a man and a woman. He doesn't recognize the woman, but somehow he finds he's not surprised to see Murray standing in his living room, his overalls and flannel shirt still stained with the pasta sauce from earlier that day, eyes inky black.

“Where is Dean Winchester?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Castiel rejoins evenly, his tone belying the painful, uneven racing of his heart.

He scans the room for something, anything he might use against these creatures. Not altogether surprisingly, there's nothing. He knows there's salt in the kitchen, and he can probably make holy water if he's given enough time, but he never planned for this contingency, and he's cursing the day he let himself become complacent. A casual sweep of Murray's hand sends him across the room again, and he lands heavily, knocking over a footed lamp.

“Don't lie to me. I know what you are,” Murray sneers. He steps over the debris, and delivers a vicious kick to Castiel's ribs. “You're nothing, now, Castiel. All the power in the universe, and now you're nothing but a human worm, crawling in the dirt like the rest of them. Give us Michael's vessel, and I promise your death will be quick.”

Castiel sucks in a pained breath, rolls away from his attackers and regains his feet, throws himself bodily past the female demon and into the kitchen, where he left the shotgun by the door. It won't stop them, but it might slow them down enough to buy him some time. He's bleeding from a half-dozen nicks and cuts on his hands and feet, slip-slides in his own blood on the tile, nearly overbalances as he grabs hold of the shotgun and racks it, brings it to bear even as he's still falling, and empties it repeatedly into the face of the female demon. There's no time to feel bad about destroying the human host. Bullets won't kill a demon, but it's hard to argue with buckshot at point-blank range, and the woman's face comes apart in a spray of blood and splintered bone. The demon collapses to the floor, limbs spasming, blood pooling beneath the body. Smoke billows from the corpse, pouring from the now-protruding trachea as the demon abandons ship. Castiel's feeling of triumph is short-lived, though, when he hears a shout from Murray.

“Gotcha, you little bastard!”

He looks up, sees Dean standing in the kitchen doorway, eyes opened so wide they look as though they're swallowing his face. Castiel feels his heart lurch to a stop in his chest. “No!”

Murray lunges, snatches the child up in his arms, effectively blocking any shot Castiel might have with the shotgun, even if he had any ammunition left in it. The demon lets out a delighted laugh.

“Little fucker. There's a lot of people who're gonna thank me when I wring your neck!”

Castiel catches a glimpse of Dean's pale face, expression determined. A plastic cup from the bathroom clatters to the floor, and the next thing he knows the demon is howling and clawing at its face, skin steaming and smoking. It drops Dean, staggers backward, and Castiel doesn't hesitate, jumps forward and knocks it backward, kneeling on its chest as it shrieks, and begins to recite.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus...”

The demon writhes beneath him, struggling, and for a moment Castiel fears it will throw him aside, until Dean scrambles back to him, clutching a box of salt in both hands and upends it over the demon's face. Castiel takes a breath, keeps going, shoving aside the terror that keeps threatening to overpower him.

“Ut inimicos sanctae Ecclesiae humiliare digneris, te rogamus, audi nos!”

With a last shriek, the demon erupts from Murray's mouth in a cloud of oily smoke, and Castiel collapses back onto the floor, panting and shaking. For a moment everything is terribly still. He looks over at Dean, who has retreated to sit with his back to the kitchen cabinets, hugging his knees to his chest, then crawls forward on hands and knees through the wreckage to sit beside him.

“Are you all right?”

Dean nods, although he's almost hyperventilating. Castiel snatches him up and presses him tightly against his chest. “God, Dean, I thought he was going to kill you! Didn't I tell you to stay upstairs?”

Dean doesn't answer, just trembles against him, and Castiel strokes the back of his head. “Never mind. It's all right. You're safe, that's all that matters. Where on earth did you get holy water?”

He pulls back to look at Dean, and gets only a delighted grin in response.

*~*

They pack their bags in the morning. Castiel dresses Dean in several layers of clothing to keep him warm, and finds a large suitcase with wheels that Jimmy occasionally took on business trips. He packs as many tins of food as he can into the bottom, empties out the pantry of all the non-perishable food he thinks can be easily prepared on the road, as well as all of the salt. He finds several bags of raw salt originally used to de-ice the driveway, and brings that along as well. Nowhere is safe, he sees that now, and there's no choice but to continue. He wonders if this is how Sam felt the night his girlfriend died.

Dean falls asleep in his arms as he walks to the bus station, head resting on his shoulder, the stuffed rabbit wedged between them, his breath misting in the frigid morning air. There's a fresh, crisp scent in the air, which Castiel recognizes as the scent of impending snow.

The whole business is unsettling. As far as Castiel knows, there's no way for a human to make holy water without saying the proper blessing aloud, even if it was relatively easy to find a crucifix or a rosary in Jimmy's house ―the advantages of staying in the home of a devout family. He can't reconcile himself to the fact that Dean not only managed to make holy water, but ventured downstairs on his own to face the demons. Dean's mother died when he was this age, and his father discovered the truth about what was really hiding in the shadowy recesses of life right around the same time, but the idea that there is anything other than a frightened child in Dean's frame is, frankly, unsettling. He’s just so small, so quick to emotion, and Castiel can't think of another word for it.

There are still buses running. They are few and far-between, but there's one heading west that day, and he carefully counts out some of the little remaining cash he has in order to purchase two tickets.

“It's not so much a bus as it is a small shuttle van,” the girl who sells him the tickets confides, “but it seats nearly twenty people and the seats are very comfortable. Are you going far?”

“A fair distance.” He's not telling anyone their exact destination anymore, although he thinks that ship may have sailed anyway when he told Murray not only where they were heading, but also who they were seeking out.

“Right,” the girl snaps her gum, making him wonder just where she got bubble gum when the world has ended. “Well, this one'll get you all the way to Lincoln. If you're lucky, you'll get there before it's dark. Or, well, it's always kind of dark these days, but you'll get there maybe before it's actually officially night time, or whatever.”

The bus ―or shuttle van― is filled to capacity. He keeps Dean on his lap, scans the other passengers, but he can't tell if anyone is a demon. He was so certain of his ability to just be able to sense if something was wrong, because he always was able to tell before, and had been using 'Cristo' simply as a precaution on the road. He was so convinced they were safe that he's allowed himself to become complacent, and Dean nearly paid with his life. He keeps his arms tightly wrapped around the child in his lap, thankful that Dean is asleep and hasn't noticed just how damned terrified he is.

For the first time in his existence, Castiel considers cursing as fluently as he can manage. It seems a better alternative than finding a corner to hide in and cry. He's pretty certain that, were Dean an adult still, he would disapprove of hiding and crying as a course of action. He scrubs at his face with one hand, looks outside at the grey fields going past. When he was an angel, he never understood that humans interpreted the landscape to be moving when the vehicle they were in was, in fact, what was being displaced, but now he thinks he gets the idea. Perhaps it's because he himself is sitting still that creates the illusion.

Dean stirs in his arms, settles again with a quiet sigh, and it does nothing to help ease the desperate jackhammering of Castiel's heart. He hopes that it's not going to last the entire trip to Nebraska, or that it won't somehow result in his heart ceasing to function entirely. He should try to get some sleep, he tells himself. It's not like he was able to get any during the night, what with being set upon by demons, and he has a ten-hour bus ride ahead of him which may well last even longer. He leans back in his seat, looks up at the ash-white sky, pressing down on the earth like a blanket, and doesn't sleep at all.

*~*

They run out of money just outside of Mountain Home. Castiel takes a page from Dean's book after that ―the Dean from before, that is― and tries to stay 'under the radar,' as Dean used to put it. The less people notice them, the less likely they are to attract unwanted attention from demons or vampires or any other kind of creature that might wish them harm. They've gone through most of the food he packed, though he thinks he might have enough to last them for another day or two, which normally would be more than enough, except for the fact that they're fifty miles away from their destination with no means of getting there. To make things worse, it's been snowing intermittently for the past two days, turning the world grey and filling the streets with slush. Within minutes, his shoes have filled with half-frozen water and his socks are soaking wet. Sometimes, Castiel wonders if there isn't some sort of giant conspiracy to make him even more miserable than he already is.

Mountain Home isn't exactly the most welcoming place, either. Everywhere they go he and Dean are met with suspicious stares and monosyllabic responses, and no one seems willing to take him up on his offers to work in exchange for either food or a means of transportation the rest of the way to Meridian. Castiel wants to hit something, perhaps scream at the top of his lungs in frustration, but he keeps a tight lid on the impulse ―the last thing Dean needs is for him to lose control.

“Excuse me.”

He whirls, startled, to find a woman standing just behind him. She's older than he is, careworn, her hair bound up in a faded bandana. She has a child with her, a boy, but older than Dean, perhaps twelve or thirteen years old, a sullen, closed look on his face, hands shoved deep into his pockets. She smiles at him tentatively.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. It's just... I heard you were looking for a ride out of town. Is that right?”

He hesitates, then nods. “That's right.”

She motions to his shotgun. “There's a small group of us, heading North. Me and Luke here, and a couple of other guys. I'm June, and over there's Sal and Everett,” she points to two men in flannel shirts, jeans and baseball caps, men he normally wouldn't look twice at. “If you're willing, you could ride with us as far as you need to go. The roads aren't safe, and having someone like you, with a gun, well, it'd be added protection.”

He snorts. “How do you know I'm safe?”

“You've got a kid,” she points out. “You wouldn't do anything to put him at risk. I should know, I'm a mother.”

“I haven't got anything to give you in return.”

“That's okay. Parents need to stick together, and you can think of it as providing a service. That shotgun is a better deterrent than even Sal and Everett at their most threatening.”

There's no reason not to agree. The boy Luke is a little surly, but that's hardly a valid reason to refuse transportation and protection. Sal, the more talkative of the two men ―which means he actually says 'Hello' rather than simply grunt as a way of greeting Castiel― helps him load their few belongings into the back of a minivan that seems to be mostly held together by rust. At least there's enough room for all of them to sit. Dean hides behind Castiel's legs the entire time, which Castiel finds amusing, considering that only a few days ago the boy faced down a demon practically on his own. Seeing him act this way around humans seems ludicrous by contrast.

None of their new-found travelling companions seem especially talkative. June makes a few half-hearted attempts at small talk, but soon enough they're riding in silence. Castiel watches the snow whirl by the windows, the visibility reduced to only a few yards ahead where the high-beams are cutting through the drifts, the road lined so thickly with trees that it feels as though they're framed by dark walls. Dean is holding onto his rabbit by its ears, sucking on his knuckle, also staring at the snow, but occasionally he glances back anxiously at the two men at the front of the van. Luke and his mother are in the back seat, and the kid just glares whenever anyone so much as looks at him, and so Castiel doesn't bother trying to engage him in any kind of talk.

He's not sure how long they've been driving, although it's dark enough that he suspects it's been at least three hours, when Sal abruptly pulls the van over to the side of the road and puts it into park, though he lets the engine idle.

“Something wrong?”

Everett grunts something unintelligible and disembarks from the van, followed by Sal, who looks over his shoulder at Castiel. “Thought I saw something. You coming, or what? Bring the shotgun.”

He slides out of his seat, ruffles Dean's hair reassuringly ―though he's anything but reassured― and picks up the shotgun. He's ducking to get out through the van's sliding doors when he feels something hard collide with the side of his head, sending him sprawling to his hands and knees on the wet, freezing road.

*~*

For a few seconds he's too stunned to move, seeing stars. Then a booted foot connects solidly with his stomach, knocking him over. He rolls onto his side, jerks his head away in time to avoid having his skull crushed by Sal's boot, and feels what's presumably the toe of Everett's boot deliver a vicious blow to his kidneys. The shotgun is wrenched from his hands, and he can only raise his arms to protect his head as Sal drives the stock of the weapon at his face, the impact jarring his arms all the way to the shoulders. He cries out as Everett kicks him again, curls in on himself, the slush splashing into his face, filling his mouth. He's blind, his ears ringing, his whole world reduced to the few square inches of road beneath him. He can't move, can't think, fingers digging into the snow-covered gravel, until a voice cuts through the fog.

“Hey, get off me, fucking brat!”

Dean, he thinks desperately, forces himself to his knees to see Everett drawing back with one hand to strike at Dean, who's clinging to his arm for all he's worth, hanging off him with his entire weight. Castiel spots movement out of the corner of his eye, twists around in time to catch Sal's foot with both hands, and wrenches the man's ankle as hard as he can. Sal utters a yell of pain, staggers, and Castiel lunges to his feet, ignoring the stabbing pains in his side, grabs Sal by both shoulders and shoves him as hard as he can right at Everett. Dean lets go of Everett's arm as the two men very nearly collapse against each other.

“Dean, run!” Castiel manages to choke out, stumbling to one knee, coughing painfully.

He doesn't have time to see if Dean heeds his words, just braces himself as Sal and Everett regroup and Sal comes at him again, more warily this time.

“May as well give it up now,” Sal says. “We ain't got a quarrel with you. You play your cards right, we won't need to beat on you no more, and you got a good chance of getting to the next town on foot.”

Castiel coughs again, tastes copper on his tongue. “Or what?”

“Or Everett here will blow your head clean off your shoulders with your own shotgun, and leave your kid out here to freeze to death. He ain't coming with us, no matter what ―we ain't feeding another kid, one's bad enough― so it's up to you.”

Castiel's head is spinning, his mouth filling with blood. He can't let these men take everything they have, but Everett is pointing the shotgun directly at his head, and he can't think, can't make sense of anything. Has no idea how he got here, on his knees in the wet road and the driving snow, bleeding into the grey slush. He shuts his eyes, holds himself very still until he hears the sound of the van doors slamming shut, curls in on himself, one arm wrapped around his ribcage, lungs burning, and coughs so hard that he sees stars spark behind his eyelids.

He feels a slight pressure on his shoulder, draws in a wheezing breath, manages to get the coughing under control. He looks up, eyes streaming, to see Dean standing by his shoulder, still bundled up in the two sweaters and hoodie that Cas insisted he wear under his wind breaker. He's holding his rabbit, which is filthy and soaking wet, and Castiel lets out a choking laugh, rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand, smears dirt and slush on his face.

“Well, at least they didn't get your bunny.”

He starts coughing again, clutches harder at his ribs when that sends pain spiking through him. He's pretty sure that he's cracked or broken at least one rib. When he manages to start breathing normally again, he finds himself staring into Dean's anxious eyes. The boy has pulled his hands into his sleeves, and he reaches out to wipe gently at Castiel's face with the fabric in a gesture that's almost tender. Castiel struggles to his feet, doesn't know whether to laugh at the absurdity of being waylaid by two humans who've barely mastered speech, rail at the unfairness of failing when they're so damned close to their goal, or simply to let loose with a string of every single profanity he knows.

He settles on doing none of those things, leans on his knees, trying to will away the pain in his chest. His clothing is soaking wet, his pants torn at one knee. Aside from his broken ribs his head is throbbing, and in spite of the dark and the driving snow, he's pretty sure he saw a smear of blood on Dean's sleeve as he withdrew his arm.

“Did they hurt you?” he asks, and heaves a sigh of relief when Dean shakes his head. “Small mercies. Okay,” he forces himself to collect his thoughts. “We can't stay here, we'll freeze. Are you wet?” Dean shakes his head again. “Good. Warm enough? Still got your mittens?” Dean nods and waggles a red-mittened hand at him. “Right. Well, as long as I'm the only one wet and freezing, we're ahead of the game.”

He pulls up the collar of his jacket against the wind and snow, shivering a bit. Then he takes Dean by the hand, the wool of Dean's mittens scratching at his palm, and sets out into the driving snow.

*~*

The only good thing about walking along a highway in the dark, with wet snow soaking one's clothing and slush leaking into one's shoes, is that there is no question of where the highway leads. They set out on I84, and unless the laws of space and time have changed considerably since the last time he was one earth ―and six months is the blink of an eye as far as the universe is concerned― then eventually he knows they'll get to their destination.

It's slow going. His chest feels as though it's on fire, his legs straining from the effort of keeping him going. He keeps one arm wrapped tightly around his midsection, the other hand holding Dean's. Ordinarily he'd just carry the boy, but he can barely hold himself upright, let alone pull Dean into his arms. For a few hours they manage well enough, but after a while he can feel Dean begin to flag, pulling on his hand even though he's striving very hard to keep up even with Castiel's snail-like pace. He stops, lets Dean catch up, and even in the darkness he can see the boy's teeth chattering, lips blue.

“I know you're tired, but we have to keep going,” he says. “We're both tired and cold and wet, and it's too dangerous to stop. I can't carry you, not right now.”

Dean just looks up at him, blinking as snow falls in his eyes. He doesn't nod or give any sign of acquiescence, but it's clear that he understands what Castiel is saying. Castiel shucks his jacket, wincing as the movement jolts his ribs, and drapes it over Dean's shoulders, zipping it up to his chin. It's far too big, comes down past Dean's knees, and he doesn't even bother trying to fit Dean's arms into the sleeves, but at least it'll be warm. He steps behind Dean, unwilling to let him fall behind again.

“As soon as we find shelter, we'll stop and rest. I promise.”

He ushers Dean before him, feels water dripping from his hair down his neck in freezing rivulets, and wishes that shivering didn't hurt so much. He's never felt the cold this badly. As long as he's been human he's always had at least a vehicle in which to take shelter, never been exposed to the elements for prolonged periods of time. Dean is shivering too, though less now that he's wearing Castiel's jacket.

“Can't even keep him warm,” Castiel mutters, no longer even sure to whom he's speaking. “How many more ways can I fail at this?”

They pass a sign for Meridian, and although the mileage has been mostly obscured by the snow, he finds it heartening. If there's a sign at all, it means they can't be too far. A few minutes later Dean stops so abruptly Castiel almost trips over him, and points to the side of the road, past the tree line. It takes a moment, but after squinting into the darkness, Castiel catches a glimpse of the outline of what looks like a small mound of some sort. It's almost too much of an effort to change tack and venture off the side of the road, but he manages, stumbling over the uneven ground, and to his surprise he finds a pile of logs, carefully covered by a tarp. He barks a laugh, immediately regrets it when a stabbing pain in his chest almost doubles him over, coughing. He catches himself on the log pile, then goes about untying the tarp with fingers long since numbed by the cold.

“It's not much,” he tells Dean, who's let himself drop to the ground, the tips of the rabbit's ears sticking out from underneath Castiel's jacket. “But it'll keep us dry. Well, as dry as we're going to get, anyway. Come here.”

He yanks the tarp off the log pile, and sets it wet-side down on the ground, wrapping the ends around them both. “I know you hate camping,” he says softly, remembering something Dean told him a lifetime ago, and to his surprise Dean giggles. “But it's just for now. Just for tonight. Tomorrow we're going to get where we've been heading all this time. I promise.”

He pulls the tarp more tightly over them, Dean nestled close, and is grateful at least that it's waterproof. Dean is shivering, but Castiel can't feel the cold anymore, and he's grateful for that too. He should stay awake, keep watch over Dean, but he's failed at all of the tasks God set out for him from the start, and as he feels himself spiralling into darkness, he tells himself this is just one more failure to add to his ever-growing list.

*~*

For the first time ever, Castiel dreams. He finds himself wandering in circles in a vast expanse of glittering white desert, searching for Dean. Even in his dream he realizes what is happening, and he can almost hear Dean's derisive snort.

 _Real original, there, Cas. I bet Freud himself wouldn't be able to decipher this one. You're a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a flatbread._

Something's wrong. He can feel it, but can't rouse himself to do anything about him. He thinks there might be a fire ―everything feels too warm, his clothes confining. The flames are crackling, licking the nearby tree trunks, threatening to consume him, and he thrashes weakly, trying to move away from them, with no success. He can hear someone breathing hard nearby, moaning. There's a feather-light touch against his cheek; tiny, cold fingers brushing against stubble. Dean. Castiel struggles to open his eyes, realizes that the moans he's hearing are coming from him. Dean strokes his face, and a moment later something fuzzy and damp is pressed up against his cheek. He forces open his eyes, catches a flash of yellow, and realizes Dean has given him his stuffed rabbit to hold.

“Dean?” he croaks, throat parched.

He's never been this thirsty before. It seems that tonight is going to be the time to experience all the human extremes he's never experienced in the past. Dean's face appears above his, scrunched up with worry, and he places a small hand carefully on Castiel's forehead, as though he's checking for fever. Castiel almost laughs, coughs instead, curling on his side. His chest feels as though he's being stabbed. They should be going, he tells himself. The longer they stay here, the more dangerous it will be for both of them. In his current condition, he'll be even less able to take care of Dean, and the longer they delay, the sicker he's going to become. His eyes drift shut even as he's telling himself to get up, to get them both moving again, and a moment later he's spiralling back into the darkness.

When he comes to the sky is still the same indecipherable shade of white, making it impossible to tell how long he's been delirious. He's still too warm, his head throbbing, but his thoughts are clearer now, and he's able to push himself first to his hands and knees, then to his feet. Dean puts both hands on his elbow and pushes, trying to help, and Castiel has to make an extra effort not to knock him over as well. He manages to keep his feet, leans on his knees, coughing, until he's able to draw in a painful breath.

“Okay,” he wheezes. “We have to go. I'm sorry if I scared you. Are you all right?” he asks belatedly.

Dean just wraps both hands around his wrist, presses his forehead briefly to Castiel's forearm. He shouldn't be reaching to Dean for reassurance, Castiel berates himself, wiping sweat from his face with the back of his wrist. He's only a child, after all, too young and too small for that sort of burden. He briefly considers bringing the tarp along, discards the notion as he realizes he can barely raise his arms. He takes Dean's hand, leads him back to the highway, then crouches down to check that his coat is still properly zipped up, that his hood is still protecting his ears from frostbite, checks that he still has both mittens and that the ends are tucked into his sleeves to keep out the worst of the cold.

“At least it's not snowing anymore.”

The going is even slower than the day before, and after a while Castiel is forced to ignore the almost-blinding pain in his ribs and carry Dean piggy-back style, his elbows hooked behind the boy's knees, small arms wrapped around his neck. The pain almost takes his breath away for a moment, but he rallies, sets up a pace that sends pain jolting through every nerve ending in his body but which he hopes he'll be able to maintain for a while yet. After a while even the pain becomes familiar, like white noise constantly on in the background, and he's able to ignore it, focused solely on putting one foot in front of the other.

The light fades, and Castiel thinks bitterly that they've been walking steadily into the shadows. He trips on something unseen, wrenches his ankle. He falls heavily to his knees, one hand automatically reaching up to prevent Dean from falling. He coughs, can't get up, not even when Dean wriggles and slips off his back. Castiel doesn't have the strength left in his arms to even think of trying to hold him back. He chokes back a sob.

“Father, please... have I come this far only to...” his chest tightens, and his bitter prayer goes unfinished.

Dean tugs first at his sleeve, then more insistently at his collar. Castiel pushes himself up to sit back on his heels, and almost laughs when he sees the town sign, half-obscured by snow. The outlying buildings of Meridian are a few yards away, and he never saw them. He forces himself to his feet, struggles to keep up as Dean trots along the main street, looking back every so often as though to make sure Castiel is following him.

Well, he thinks to himself, at least we made it this far.

*~*

It has started snowing again in the last few minutes, fat wet flakes that cling to Castiel's hair. He keeps walking, tottering on legs that are barely serving to hold him up. His shoulders and back are burning from carrying Dean for most of the day with few rest stops ―he didn't dare stop for long for fear they would never get going again― and each breath feels like a blade piercing right through his lungs. He wants to stop, wants nothing more than to let himself fall right where he is and just go to sleep, but Dean is walking on ahead determinedly, and Castiel can't let him go on alone. Unprotected.

“Dean,” he tries to call out, but it comes out weak, strangled, and so he just pushes himself onward. It's ridiculous that he's being outpaced by a four-year-old child, he thinks, head swimming. He feels drunk, or similar to the one time he got somewhat inebriated. His thoughts are fuzzy, chasing each other around his brain like rats, and it's all he can do simply to follow the boy who's been leading him around for years, who has led him to every single terrible, irrevocable decision he's ever made since he pulled him out of hell. “I regret none of it,” he croaks, but there's no one around to hear him. The streets are deserted, the inhabitants of the town having the good sense to stay out of the snowstorm.

Then Dean disappears.

They've rounded a corner, and the last time he sees Dean they're at the mouth of a dark alleyway. Castiel fancies he sees Dean's face light up, his expression alert, bright and happy, and the next thing he knows, the boy is gone, vanished into the night and the swirling snow.

“Dean!”

He's assaulted by a wave of dizziness. The whole world lurches under his feet, tilts first up then down again, and his knees buckle. He catches himself against the wooden wall of the nearest building with one hand, can't keep his balance. He lets himself slide down against the wall, sinks into the snow that's piling up in drifts there, coughing painfully, pressing his hand to his chest in a futile attempt to quell the cough. Get up, he tells himself, and almost laughs when his body fails to comply with anything his mind has to tell him. He can't breathe, knows he's freezing to death even though he can't feel the cold. He tries to get his legs under him, feels his heels scrape against the ice on the ground, but he's too weak even to push himself so much as an inch off the ground.

He's going to die.

He struggles to get up again. He's going to die and Dean will be alone in the dark and the cold, and he can't let that happen. His head falls back and his eyes close in spite of himself, and he coughs weakly. He doesn't even have the breath left with which to swear, and he feels that this would be an opportune time to do so, if he were able.

“Hey! Hey buddy, you okay?”

He doesn't recognize the voice, but there's no reason why he should, he reminds himself. He knows no one in these parts. In fact, he knows almost no one in the entire world, and now that Dean is lost he's alone, perhaps just as lost, moreso in some ways. More voices join the first, and he feels strong hands pull him up by his armpits. He struggles ineffectually against them.

“No,” he opens his eyes, but the world is a blur. “I have to find Dean. I lost him,” he tells the silhouette holding him up.

“Okay, buddy, don't worry. We'll help you find him,” the first voice promises. It's a male voice, and it sounds kind enough, Castiel decides. “He your friend?”

He can't catch his breath. “He's a boy ―a child. I have to find him. He's all alone.”

The man raises his voice. “You heard him, we got a missing kid around here someplace! Someone go get Nicholas!”

Castiel's eyes snap open. “Nicholas,” he repeats, clutches at the man's arm. “We were coming to see him. You know him?”

“Sure,” the voice is wary now. “What you want with him?”

“A man named Daniel said... I should find him. I was in Detroit,” he says, trying to make sense of it all. He starts coughing again, and the man has to brace himself when Castiel's legs threaten to give way again.

“We'll deal with that later. We gotta get you someplace warm first. You just lean on me, now.”

“Dean...”

“Don't you worry about your boy. We got people here, we'll find him for you. He can't have gone far. How old you say he was?”

The question almost doesn't make sense, because God only knows how old Dean Winchester is, after thirty-one years of life on earth, forty years in hell, and a newfound childhood, but he gives the best answer he has. “Four.”

“Poor kid. Don't worry, we'll find him. Easy does it, now, we're gonna head in here. Watch the step there,” the man keeps going in a soothing prattle, guiding him by the elbow.

There's a rush of warm air against Castiel's face, the smell of a building that's been closed off for too long, of people who haven't washed in a few days, pungent but not unpleasant. When he's able to focus his eyes again he finds himself in a small room filled with comfortable-looking brown furniture. His rescuer pushes him gently into a padded armchair, and he feels a blanket being tucked over him. He hears more voices around him, mingling together into an unintelligible cacophony. Then someone pushes a warm mug into his hands, holds them in place with their own hands, and he's able to pick out a new, female voice among the rest.

“Come on, have a sip. I want you to drink all of that, slowly. You're lucky I had the kettle already on the boil.”

He doesn't feel lucky, but he complies as best he can, and the man who brought him in claps him on the shoulder. “Attaboy. You sit tight, all right? I'm going to fetch Nicholas for you, seeing as how you came all this way just to find him. I think he'll be real curious to meet you.”

*~*

Castiel can't seem to stay awake. He floats, dimly aware of comings and goings of people he doesn't know, of voices he doesn't recognize wafting by him on the air. He cradles the empty mug in his lap, slumped in the armchair, struggles to stay conscious enough to ask for news of Dean, but no one seems able or willing to stop long enough to tell him what's going on. After a while he picks out the voice of his rescuer, speaking to an unknown interlocutor in the doorway.

“We just found him outside, passed out against the side of the bar. He said he was coming to find you, Nick, that some guy named Daniel gave him your name. Said he came from Detroit.”

“Detroit?” the door closes, and he hears a hiss of indrawn breath. “Oh my God.”

It feels as though a bolt of electricity has run through him. He knows the voice, knows it like he knows all the hymns of heaven. Castiel tries to sit further up, breath catching painfully in his lungs, and the mug slips from his fingers, clatters to the floor, though it doesn't break. Heavy footsteps approach him, booted feet tramping confidently across the floor. There's a creak of abused floorboards, and 'Nicholas' crouches next to the armchair.

“Jesus, Cas, is it really you?” Sam breathes.

“Sam,” he feels a grin spread over his face. He has never been this happy to see anyone in his entire existence. “You're alive!”

“Sam?” the question comes from the man who found Castiel and brought him inside.

“Not now, Willie. I promise, I'll explain later,” Sam says, his tone brooking no argument, and the man subsides into expectant silence.

If he hadn't heard Sam's voice first, he thinks he might have had trouble recognizing him. His face is badly scarred on the left side by what looks like it must have been a severe burn, the skin puckered and shiny, his eye covered with a black cloth patch. The burn marks travel down his neck, and Castiel spots a black leather glove on his left hand. The next thing he knows he's being gathered into Sam's strong arms, crushed in a hug that threatens to cut off what little air he has left. Sam is warm and dry, and for the first time since he can remember, Castiel feels safe.

He tries to speak again, starts coughing instead, and immediately Sam presses his right hand to his forehead, the way Castiel remembers him doing for Dean whenever he was ill. If there was ever any doubt that this truly is Sam, there is none now.

“What the hell have you done to yourself?” Sam shakes his head, in the same tone of fond exasperation he used to save for his brother. “Cas... I know how shitty this is going to sound when you're so sick, but... is Dean with you? Do you know what happened to him?”

Castiel swallows thickly. “He's with me,” he manages. “But I lost him.”

“Easy now.” Somehow Sam has managed to procure a glass of water from somewhere, and holds it to Castiel's lips, cradling the back of his head with strong fingers, helping him to drink. “Come on, small sips. What do you mean you lost him?”

He doesn't know how to begin explaining everything that's happened. “The boy who was with me...”

“Yeah, Willie mentioned that. I don't understand. Are you saying that's Dean? The little boy is Dean?”

He nods weakly, and his eyes drift closed for a moment before he forces himself awake again. “I can't explain it. I don't understand either, but it's him.”

“Are you sure? How do you know it's Dean?”

“I just know,” he can feel his voice fading, and Sam coaxes more water into him. “I can see his soul.”

“But I don't understand,” Sam repeats. “How can he be a child? Was it ―I mean, you're human, right? It can't have been God, can it?”

He shakes his head. “I don't know,” it comes out as a moan. “It's why we were coming here... for answers. I was bringing him ―I lost him. We have to find him,” he clutches at Sam's sleeve, trying to rise to his feet, and Sam smooths a hand over his forehead again, apparently pushing aside his questions in the face of more immediate problems.

“Shh. Of course we will. He can't be far, and there's already people out there looking. I'll just get you settled properly, and I'll go too. But you,” he puts his hand on Castiel's chest, effectively preventing him from moving, “need to stay put. We'll get you some dry clothes, some more tea, get you taken care of. I'll find Dean for us, I promise. You just take it easy, okay?” he leans back, and the light catches the terrible scars on his face.

“What happened to you?” Castiel reaches up with one hand, stops just short of touching Sam's face when he flinches almost imperceptibly. Sam shrugs.

“Turns out being the actual Ground Zero of Armageddon is really bad for you. Look, don't worry about that now, okay? There's a cot in the next room. Think you can walk if I help you? We've got a doctor, of sorts. More like a medic. Anyway, I'll get him to take a look at you as soon as possible. We'll get you set up, and I promise I'll keep you in the loop about Dean. Okay, Cas?”

“I want to come with you.”

“Cas,” Sam's tone is gentle. “You can't even stand up. You came all this way for me ―well, for Nicholas, but since we're the same person, it kind of works out. How about you trust me to handle this, okay?”

Castiel slumps in his chair, has to concede that Sam's right. “Okay.”

Sam smiles at him, and even if the left side of his face twists as he does so, it's still the most beautiful thing Castiel has seen in a long time. “Okay. Let's get you up.”

*~*

Castiel manages to make it to the cot mostly unassisted, Sam's arm around his waist, other hand under his elbow. The room it's in is Spartan in its furnishings, a simple pine table, a lamp, and the cot itself, the walls whitewashed. It's easier to breathe when he's upright, and he ends up sitting propped up against the wall while Sam provides him with dry clothes, more tea, and a succinct explanation of what's been going on in the last six months.

“You've seen what the world is like,” he says, helping to strip off Castiel's soaking wet sweater. “I don't know most of what happened, right when everything changed. All I remember is everything burning white-hot, and the next thing I knew I was waking up covered in bandages in a makeshift hospital in Detroit, and the whole world had ended and been reborn like this. Can't say it's much of an improvement.”

“What are you doing here?”

“It's kind of a long story,” Sam unclips Castiel's belt, tugs off his pants, reaches for the set of dry clothes folded neatly on the bed. It seems silly to be concerned with modesty at this point, but Castiel finds himself flushing a bit anyway, doesn't meet Sam's eyes. “It wasn't safe to keep my name, not at first. So I moved around, picked a name I liked from a book, and eventually ended up here. I sort of run the local bar, for whatever that's worth. It's not like there's much alcohol left over that we don't make ourselves, but it's more of a... I guess a point of contact for what few hunters are still out there.”

Castiel nods tiredly, does his best to help so that Sam doesn't have to dress him like a broken marionette. “You've become known for helping people,” he murmurs. “Just like before.”

“It's a nice change from Bringer-of-the-Apocalypse,” Sam agrees wryly. “Anyway, I just make a point of keeping people connected. Making sure information goes where it needs to, offering pointers to people who come by, if they want them. That's pretty much what I've been up to in a nutshell. Well, that and trying to fix the car.”

“Car?”

Sam ducks his head with a grimace. “Uh, I... shit. The Impala was in Detroit, you know? And she kind of got a little banged up when it all went down. She still runs, but her body needs a lot of work, and I'm still new at this, so it's taken me a while, and... Cas?”

Castiel struggles to his feet, has to clutch at Sam to keep from falling over. “The car. Where are you keeping it?”

Sam blinks, obviously confused. “Here. I mean, not exactly here, but there's a storage space next door. I work on it in my spare time, and it just made sense to have it nearby... where are you going?”

It all makes sense. In his mind's eye Castiel can clearly see Dean's delighted expression just before he disappeared, and he knows now where he is. “We have to go there, right now.”

“Okay, Cas, sure,” Sam sounds surprised, but he doesn't argue, just pulls Castiel's arm over his shoulders, wraps an arm around his waist.

He takes Castiel through what feels like a maze of narrow hallways, and pushes open a flimsy wouldn't door, revealing a large storage space beyond. It's freezing in the space, the outer wall partially missing, leaving it all wide-open to the street. Castiel is astonished that he didn't see it before: he must have been standing less than twenty yards away.

The Impala is there, shrouded in shadows, the chrome gleaming dully in the pale glow of the flashlight. He reaches for the light, grateful when Sam lets him have it without argument, and makes his way slowly, painfully to the car. He has to make a hasty grab for its frame once he's there, dizzy and out of breath, but a quick look in the driver's window makes the clenching pain in his chest all but disappear. He smiles, pulls open the door, then reaches down and gently shakes the sleeping bundle by the shoulder.

“Dean, wake up.”

Dean stirs sleepily, the stuffed rabbit held tightly in his arms, then blinks and smiles up at him, wide and trusting. Castiel swallows the sob that wells up from somewhere deep inside him, tugs the boy upright.

“Come on. There's a surprise for you,” he muffles a cough into his sleeve, then points behind him. “Look.”

It's like watching the sun come up over the horizon. Dean rubs his eyes, still groggy from having fallen asleep, and then his whole face lights up in the biggest smile Castiel has ever seen.

“Sammy!”

Instantly he bolts from the car, and hurls himself headlong into his brother's arms. Sam lets out a delighted laugh and hauls him into the air, spinning him around.

“Oh my God, it really is you!”

For a few moments Castiel hears only the disbelieving rumble of his voice, the muted sound of Dean's pure, unabashed joy at being reunited with his Sammy. He sinks down into the driver's seat of the Impala, grinning in spite of the renewed pain in his chest that feels as though it's splitting him in half, tries not to cough and make it worse. The whole world is dropping out from under him, and he's both falling and soaring on wings he thought were lost. He doesn't even realize that he's let his eyes close until he feels Dean's small hand on his knee. Very carefully Dean climbs up onto the seat, halfway in his lap.

“Cas?”

Castiel swallows the lump in his throat. “Yes, Dean?”

“We found him!” Dean is jubilant, his eyes sparkling. “We found Sammy, Cas, just like you said!”

“We did at that,” Castiel says, and in spite of himself his voice breaks. He thinks he might break apart into his smallest atoms, scatter across the universe like a ray of light.

Dean looks at him for a moment, then reaches up and brushes the tears off Castiel's cheek with his thumb. “Don't cry, Cas. It's okay. We found him, right? So now everything's going to be okay.”

Sam leans into the car, easily lifts Dean up onto one hip, then holds out his free hand for Castiel to take.

“Okay, you two. We can finish this later.

“Let's get you home.”

~END~


	5. Thanks & Author's Notes

**Thanks**

This fic would not have been possible without the tireless efforts of pkwench. She held my hand when I wibbled, encouraged me when I got all cranked up and excited about my fic, and gave me numerous kicks in the pants when I stalled at the end of the first chapter.

She beta’d this beast while working full-time, studying, and writing her own fic. I have no idea how she did it, or even when she slept, but I am damned grateful. She was tireless in her encouragement, cheered in her comments to the fic even while gently pointing out that my sentence structure sometimes made it sound as though Castiel was dating his food instead of eating it. She nudged and prodded and cajoled, commiserated and offered internet cookies and amusing cat anecdotes to keep me going, and basically kept me sane and on-track during the writing process.

In short, if she hadn’t been around, this story would not exist as it currently does, and it would be the poorer for it.

Very special thanks also need to go out to my artist, daggomus_prime, who as I said put up with flailing and way too many emails, and a last-minute script change from me.

I find that my words are inadequate to describe her artwork. It’s so very singular in its beauty, the look and style all her own. Even though the characters are recognizably themselves, they are also unmistakably _hers_ , and that’s a tour de force not many artists can claim. I’m looking forward to the day when she’s famous and acclaimed and I can point to this Big Bang and proclaim that she once drew something ALL FOR ME.

*spoilers for the story below*

I am in awe of the illustrations she painted for my fic. The scene of Cas and Dean sleeping in Claire’s old room is beautiful in its muted tones, its graceful lines, and the detail of the hands and fabric make me want to _pet_ the picture, I kid you not. And the bunny! I stared at the picture for a good few minutes with nothing but “BUNNY!” on loop in my head.

I love her Sam in the three-panel comic she drew. In fact, there is nothing about the comic that I don’t love. The play of light and shadow, the teeny-tiny form of Dean huddled up on the car seat, sleeping away with his bunny. There was something poignant, visceral even, of seeing my words brought to life like that, and it actually brought tears to my eyes. The sheer weight of emotion she managed to imbue into that simple scene took my breath away.

In short, her artwork is sumptuous, and you would be remiss not to go look at it and leave reams and reams of praising comments in her LJ.

And last but not least, dear flist, thank YOU. Thank you, readers and cheerleaders and everyone in-between, who encouraged me all along this wacky journey and put up with my flailing and squee’d right along with me at regular intervals. If you weren’t there to read the stories, there would be very little point in writing and posting them.

 **Author’s Notes**

 **Warning:** there will be spoilers for the story in the notes.

This story didn’t start out as a Big Bang. It started first as a vignette that went nowhere in my head, and sat unused on my hard drive because I couldn’t figure out what to do with it. It then became a sort of Team Free Will idea in my head, in which Dean and Cas would first explore this new post-apocalyptic world and then be reunited much faster with Sam. At which point… I had no idea what they would do. My thoughts kind of got bogged down with world-building and OCs who started taking over my imagination.

While this was all well and good, I still had no real plot, and try as I might I couldn’t get myself to sit down and write it and try to work it into a cohesive whole. So I let the whole thing lie, and figured I could just chalk it up to one of those experiments that just wasn’t meant to be. I have a ridiculously large “discard” folder of orphaned and/or aborted fics. Stuff which was born of a nifty idea but never really went anywhere.

Then along came the Dean/Cas BigBang, and suddenly I was visited with the urge to dust off what I thought of in my head as “The Adventures of Cas and wee!Dean.” I realized that by reframing it as a story about Cas and Dean trying to find Sam, it worked much better and gave me an end to work toward, which, if you’re me, is vitally important to the fic-writing process.

Basically I was mostly interested, by then, in exploring the nature of the relationship between Dean and Castiel. Would it change if one of them was fundamentally altered in some way? If both of them were? I made Cas fully human, and turned Dean back into his four-year-old self (mostly because I find wee!Dean adorable, but also because I think this is as close as he’ll ever get to a fresh start), and decided to see where it would lead. The relationship of trust has always been there: the show may waffle a bit where the friendship is concerned (and while I love the Dean/Cas ship with much love, there is very little basis in canon for it), but from very early on in the game _Dean trusts Cas_ , and that’s what this story came to be about.

In short, the story became about faith, in all its various incarnations. I suppose that, in a story starring Castiel, that shouldn’t be altogether surprising.


End file.
